





Vf. 






■.<i;i^- 






LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
PS 2>\iS 

fcp. 0a|«;ng^f0, 



.r |j IMTE 



.siieit;Vv^.87 fj-^ 



MTED STATES OF AMERICA. 



^^V. 



'■%^f.'^ ;* 



'>;^:mi' 






A-^:)^ * 















♦ **T--. 



.1.7^ *^ -. 






.,J 



V 















CK * « 



r-:i^^?,- 






/.^.".^-^^ \* ♦-^^ 



' * •. ::x) ^ ' * * 57\ t^rf*^ 






'.-..^^ \ 



^ \) 



■♦*^x 









'^*^-kW<'^r^,r^^i 









^■^'^''^-^m 






j^'.^r.^-- 






X- * ^-^^Yrp^-' ■♦ * >^'-(Tpk: -►*■■':: &3i&tf'' !* * ' ^v'tI-v^ • • .;^v\'..v- * ' ■::■'■:■ ♦ • 



-rx; 'r.'.v-" 















HEbEN 



BY 



CAMPBELL WALDO WAITE 



SAr iir vikiiiiiavinsl. ocli (let prvdt-r sin ni:iii. iiiii- ]).i l)rr)sl eller pauna 

(let fitar; 
Lat ilcl l)iri(la; fiirliiiul det se"n dyii^-ui't iii' oin. men cj i'")iT. \ill dii bclsas 

f(»r var. 

FiiiTnioF's Saga. 



Illustrated by Lons BRArxHOLD 



CHICAGO 

W. E. DIBBLE & CO 

1S90 









COPYKItniTKI) H\ 

\V. R. DIBBLK .S: CO 

1S90 



ei>ect::otyped by 

G. 11. D. LIBBY 
CHICAGO 



l^-^-e^-^i-J-^— uvAjj_ c'L ^^L^L-^-c^ -(y-tm--^^ iC-r-vv-^^jt" uv. 












CONTENTS. 



PART FIRST. — LOSS. 



Canto 


I. 


— Hazard, . 


Canto 


II. 


— Help, . 


Canto 


III. 


— Aspiration, 


Canto 


IV. 


— Instruction, 


Canto 


V. 


— Ideality, 


Canto 


VI. 


— Reputation, 


Canto 


VII. 


— Renunciation, 


Canto 


VIII. 


— Friendship, 


Canto 


IX. 


— Devotion, 


Canto 


X. 


— P.VSSION, 


Canto 


XI. 


— Melody, 


Canto 


XII. 


— Love. . 



PAGE 
13 
18 
29 
36 

55 
66 

75 

lOI 

115 
127 

137 



PART vSECOND. — TRIAL. 



Canto 


I. 


— War, 


Canto 


II. 


— Resolve. 


Canto 


III. 


— Sacrifice, 


C.\xt() 


IV. 


— Duty, . 


Canto 


V. 


— Recognition, . 


Canto 


\'I. 


— Pr.wer. 



145 
15^ 

165 

175 
179 

186 



VI CONTHNTS. 

Canto VII. — Kaitii 19^ 

Canto VIII. — Consolation, . . . 210 

Canto IX. — IIkrois.m, . . » . c . 214 

Canto X. — TKir.Aii'ii, ... ,221 

Canto XI. — Recoxcili.\.tion, . , 232 

Caj^to XII. — Ar Rkvoik, .... 241 



PART THIRD. — FRUITION. 



Canto I. — Pkack 247 

Canto II. — Politics, . . » 253 

Caxto III. — Opinion, ..... 263 

Canto I\'. — Sukcease, ..... 270 

Canto \'. — Shadows, . . „ . 284 

Canto A'I. — Beauty, . . • . . . 292 

Canto Yll. — Resic.xatiox, . . . 306 

Canto \'III. — Re:\iei)ilessness, . . ,' . 314 

Canto IX. — Emhers, ..... 325 

Canto X. — Remorsic, ..... 336 

Canto XI. — Retrii:v.m 350 

Canto XII. - Siiadinc.s, ..... 367 

Canto XIII. — Rest, ...... 375 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 



PAGE 

The I")ocT(ik and Laxdis. 12 

Standing straight as a lance, 
Neath the Doctor's review, in the radiant flush 
Of youth's glamor of strength. 

Engravefl on wood by Win. IMoUier. 



Mark Landis in the West. 



Breaking the Prairie. 



See them breaking the prairiel How clean the turned sod, 
Where but foot of the Indian hunter hath trod I 



Helex at the vSlough. 23 

Who should happen along but a buxom brown creature, 
On a pony as much like its mistress in feature . . . 

Eng. on wood by Mollier, 
Helen Caxteuixg Off. 28 

Calling at the Old Farm-House. 37 

Sable servitors twain came, with bnstle and din. 
Each in way of the other, to usher him in. 

L.^NDis AND Helen. 47 

Thus the evening waned; and ere they were aware. 
The great parlor clock's face was beginning to wear 
A look anxious and sharp. 

Eng. on wood by Mollier. 

Hero-Worship. 54 

Helen Brooding. 65 



ILLUSTKATIOXS. 

PAGE 
SYMrOSUM AT THIC COUNTRY STORK. (J9 

8<it, OH barrel-", and boxes, and boanlM, as tliey coiil !, 
The select coterie «)f the whole neigliborhood. 

Eng. on wootl \>y INIollier. 

In thk Grovk. 88 

The buys finally came to a lialt 
In a spot, in the heart of the srove, where a vault 
Of the maples, and sumacs, and oaks had been made. 

Landis by His Loniu.y Hearth. 114 

Passion's Power. 121 

Looking full in tlie face the bold loTe-inutincer: 
ljookin« full in his face, and yet not resting there. 

Eng. on wood by MoUier. 

ROLFE AND HIS CHK.STNUTS. 134 

Helen Alone with her Loye. 13.1 

" For I love your great heart, Mark, my king! II" you live. 
If you die, 1 am yours, I am yours, to the end, 
Be it near, bo it far, O, my lover, my friend." 

Eng. on wood by MoUier. 

Hei.IvN on the Vi;kani)A 153 

She heard 
From htM- dear i)arent'8 lips that he held in his hand 
For liis darling a missive. 

Helen and her Father. 164 

Richard Rolie and Helen in Hospital Tent. 167 

Bending down o'er the cot, she breathed low but one word — 
" Richard ! " 

Landis in thI'; 1m eld. 178 

Recognition on Battle-Field. 181 

. . . A cry 
That escaped from the nurse, as a torchlight passed by, 
And upon the dark; powder-grimed face flirew its glare. 

Scene in Ambulance. 185 



ILLUSTRATIOXS. 

PAGE 

Evening Hymn to thf. Virgin. 205 

Ave, Marial 
Ehg. on wood by MoUier. 

Helen with Babe. 213 

L.XNDl.S ALONE ON BATTLE-FIELD. 217 

He staid poised for a moment, his eye lustrous yet; 
One look toward the now mantling and purpling sunset . . . 

Eng. on wood by Mollier. 
Stri'.tchers bearing away the Heroes. 220 

ThI'! XiN IX RoLFE's Tent. 233 

Richard turned on his cot, and before him there stood, 
In the beauty of gentleness, Sister Gertrude. 

Eng. on wood by Mollier. 
The Commandant and Landis. 240 

Helen's Appeal to her Husband. 243 

He said: "I will go 
To the earth's farthest bounds, if it be but with you." 

Eng. on wood by Mollier. 
ROLFE, Helen, and Child on Shipboard. 246 

Landis and the Nominating Committee. • 2i>') 

" (Jeneral, say ! The boys hev ben thinkin', right smart. 
That yer name to our deestrick would give a fresh start." 

Eng. on wood by Mollier. 
The Sewing Society 267 

"The idea!" 

" Alisii rd y 

'■'•He's a bear.' " 
Eng. on wood by Mollier. 

Helen Sketching by the Mediterranean. 275 

And enabled her nature's expressions to catch, 
(living birth to desire that she might lift the latch 
Into art's antechamber that opens. 



ILLUSTRATIONS. 



PAGE 

Lk Taysan Contknt. 283 

Roi.FK ANn Hklkn by the :\Ikditkrraxkan. 291 

Landis Axn Blanchk Adair taking a Ridi:. 301 

Wliilo Ikt giiy, just-too-lovely-for-any-tMing hat, 
And Ufr Hinile, as in saiidle ehe sracefuUy sat, 
Gave a challenge to man and to love. 

Death <ii" Richard Roi.fe. 313 

Landis and Celeste. 339 

While he held 
(.'eleete'a soft, yielding liandn, that there welled 
Ont of fathomless eye-deptlis a look that eo glowed . . . 

Blanche Adair's Avowai, to Landis. 355 

" Knf)vv this, then, that / /ore y/oii.' 

"And, pray, do not start.'" 

Blanche in Tears. 366 

Landis Amonc. his Horses and Cattle. 375 

In his ))arnyard, one day, in a luminant mood. 

With his dumb-langnagetl pots round him, Farmer Mark stocd. 

Helen Finds Re.st. 387 

, Her head sank on his true, strong, and masterful breast, 

Where she found the years' guerdon — ineffable rest. 



PART FIRST 



uoss 



CANTO FIRST. 



HAZARD. 



I. 

" I must talk to you plainly," the old Doctor said, 

While he shook, in grave, medical way, his bald head. 

" I am not at all satisfied with your condition; 

And, as one who has served sire and son, as physician, 

These thirty long years, and is, at the best, 

A poor hand at professional lying, the zest, 

And the grace as well, lacking therefor, there are things 

I must urge you to yield, to which all your soul clings 

As to life itself — nay, which I know that you hold 

E'en above life's sweet boon, above earth's green or gold.' 

II. 
" My dear Doctor, speak freely. 'Tis better the case 
I should hear as it stands, and look facts in the face; 
For I know that whatever you choose to tell me. 
The truth dressed in no garb of phrase-feigning will be." 

III. 
" 'Tis just this," said the Doctor; and then a big lump 
Seemed to lodge in his throat, while his words in a clump 
Rolled together; and, hesitant standing, he hemmed, 
And the tide of his speech for a moment was stemmed; 
But at length he went on. " Bluntly this I must .say: 
That your once rudd}- health is now fast giving way; 
For your travels abroad, having done you scant good, 
Leave vou weaker in muscle, and thinner in blood; 



14 HKI.KX. 

There's no stay in }Our flesh, and your pulse does not show 
The beat rhythmic blood measures where health' s currents flow. 
The dread seeds of consumption, my boy. have been sown 
In vour blood ere your birth. Thou.^h they have not yet 

grown — 
While not yet is the malady fastened on you, — 
"Tis but one stage removed. This 'tis vain from your view 
To conceal." 

IV. 

Now, whoe'er but a casual glance 
At Mark Landis had cast, standing straight as a lance, 
'Neath the Doctor's review, in the radiant flush 
Of youth's glamour of strength, seeming ready to crush 
Opposition, from whatever source it might come. 
Would have deemed the young fellow as sound as a drum. 
Quick of limb, clear of eye, full of ardor, he stood. 
That spring morn, with a color which came of stirred blood. 
But one which the chill draughts, from the White Mountains 

drawn, 
\yould drive off, leaving cheeks that were sallow and wan: 
Like full man\- a tinge that exhibitors wear 
In the booths of inspection in \'anity Fair. 

V. 

'Twas no marvel the words in the good Doctor's throat 
Stuck in breaking the truth with such sad bodements fraught; 
For young Mark from a child he had constantly loved. 
And his di.sinterested affection had proved. 
As the lad up through youth into man's estate grew. 
In the unobserved ways his great heart only knew. 
And the Doctor had cherished a dream — (ah, they cease 
Not when age stealeth on, nor in brightness decrease. 



HAZARD. 15 

When infirmity cometh, those beautiful dreams! 

Only when on crepuscular shadows there beams 

The aurora of shadowless day, are they lost 

In the waking of death-bridging, fathomless trust,) — 

A dream based on an infantile troth that between 

The one child of his house and the bo}' Mark had been 

By fond parents exchanged. When the lad showed a gift 

Clear and great, when he seemed fate-commissioned to lift 

The charmed veil of the Beautiful, and the true kej'S 

That unlock the arcana of Genius to seize. 

With so fervent a faith and so anxious a gaze 

Had the old Doctor watched the developing raj-s 

Of this intellect beaconing years that were far. 

That he viewed it as shepherds viewed Bethlehem's star. 

VI. 

The physician, with l)luntness and earnestness blent. 

Thus resumed, with his patient's gaze close on him bent. 

' ' I can see but one remed}' now left for }ou. 

If you care for preserving your life, to pursue. 

But \ou may (as an invalid prizes his ease) 

The specific regard as worse than the disease. 

If so, then I must tell >ou in terms clear and square, 

'Tis as well for the worst that you early prepare ; 

For a crisis unwelcome, I can but infer, 

May at any time in your condition occur. 

VII. 

" Many thanks for }Our frankness," the \'ouug artist said. 
" What is this prescribed remedy, gruesome and dread, 
And of which you've inspired me with fear in advance ? 
I entreat, Doctor, not to be kept in suspense." 

. Then the latter a recipe gave on this wise, 
Which the soul of the artist o'erwhelmed with surpri.se: 



16 HELEN. 

VIII. 

" It is this : Buy a tract of wild land in the West ; 

Go there; give all the strength of which you are possessed 

To the labor of tilling it ; give it your heart ; 

Set your back on refinements attendant on art ; 

Drop your palette for years, or for aye ; let it be 

As a thing of the past to you, till you are free 

From the phantom demanding blood-tnbute of you. 

This condition yovi can but deem hard, it is true ; 

But I dare not release you therefrom, as your friend 

And adviser, till gained be the striven-for end. 

IX. 

" Hold the plow, chop; dig ditches; split rails, and milk cows ; 

Fodder with your own hands, and heap up your own mows ; 

Make companions of horses, yovir life graft on theirs ; 

Pet them, court them, and love them, and lighten their cares; 

And teach them to love you ; bed them down in their stalls ; 

And thus mix among all of your languageless thralls. 

Tend your kine and your sheep ; feed your pigs and your calves: 

Your worst work yourself do, and do nothing by halves. 

Lay your gloves with your art far awa}- on the shelf ; 

And a hard-working farming-man make of yourself. 

Gather muscle and sinew, bronze, blisters, and brawn ; 

Learn like oxen to sweat, and forget how to yawn ; 

Become utterly tired and wolf-hungry from work, 

And eat nothing less hearty than mutton and jwrk ; 

Delve all da\- in the fields, till your back-bone shall bend. 

And at night lie down feeling the bed your best friend. 

For those delicate fingers and palms soft and fair, 

Get the rough, horny hands that the harvesters bear ; 

And vow never to look toward New Kngland again. 

Until strength arms each nerve, and red blood fills each vein." 



HAZARD. 17 

X. 

" Or until on the prairie my grave has been made, 
And with head to the Kast in my last rest I'm laid," 
Added Landis with bitter-sad smile. 

'■ Kill or cure !" 
Grimly answered the Doctor. "This test to endure, 
Should you try it, the fates kindly lend you their aid !" 
" I will try it !" Mark Landis, with lips compressed, .said. 



XI. 

In the orchards infolded in gray granite hills. 
Where tilth's struggle witli nature life's whole measure fills. 
The old apple-trees, rugged as skalds of the North, 
Their new buds with our opening tale putting forth. 
Had their snow-showery blossoms not dropped to the earth, 
And still fresh were the hopes to which Easter gives birth, 
While was yet but half bared nature's Puritan breast, 
When Mark Landis. the purposed, was far in the West, 




CANTO SECOND. 



IIHI-I'. 



I. 

When Jehovah, unfolding His infinite plan, 

Gave the world, in its newly wrought beauty, to man, 

And the creature, in freshness of spirit, went forth 

Through the radiant, redolent, resonant earth, 

Wjth unprobed, untongued gratitude swelling his l)reast. 

To survey the resplendent, grand glory -bequest, 

I doui)t not that in Eden, stretched out in rich green, 

Fair, bright, full-blooming, far-spreading prairies were seen- 

The Creator's own meadow-lands, planted in love. 

Where the angels with primitive mortals might rove. 

The glad prairie ! What stories of beauty it tells, 

With its scarcely perceptible undulant swells. 

Like those which on the blue sea's sublime bosom play. 

When, becalmed, its deep sobs in soft sighs die away ! 

'Tis the beauty of night, with its star-wealth begemmed ; 

'Tis the beauty of ocean, unmeasured, unframed : 

'Tis the b^-auty of holiness, pure as the breath 

That once, glorified, burst through the portals of death. 

ir. 
Behold , strong in stern purpose, the young artist stand, 
With liis feet on the soil as it came from (rod's hand, 
Farewell bidding to hopes he had nourished as jxirt 
Of the web of existence, inuring his heart 
To the new and unwelcome life-trial that fate 
For him held, its result with calm soul to await. 




S 
-• ^ 

■a ^ 
■ - 2 



45 ^ 

1-^ g 



HELP. 21 

III. 
See them breaking the prairie ! How clean the turned sod, 
Where but foot of the Indian hunter hath trod ! 
Cut but g-entl}', O, plowmen, in Nature's soft breast ! 
'Tis the pillow where one day your heads shall find rest. 
Mother Nature, be j^atient ! They scarify thee. 
But to show, in the liealing, how fair thou canst be. 
Ah, the gay, furrowed field ! They have put a new gown 
On our dame, neatly plaited, and clo.se folded down ! 

IV. 

When Mark Landis work on his new land had begun, 

A sen.sation had through the vicinity run, 

At the sight of a modest, soft-spoken young man, 

With the hand of a girl, and a countenance wan, 

Making feint of farm-tilling in earnest. There spread 

A broad smile o'er the general face ; and 'twas said : 

" A fine farmer will he make, to start on wild land ! " 

" See that delicate face, and that lily-white hand ! " 

" 'Twill be little of farming that he will do here ! " 

" That he errs in his calling is perfectly clear : 

What a pity his gifts aren't permitted to shine 

In the far more congenial man-milliner's line ! " 

So the talk went about, and a welcome he met 

In the neighborhood where his stakes thus he had set, 

Such as by the world's custom a poor bride receives 

On her advent among the groom's rich relatives. 

But Mark kept his own course, with his mind, and his heart, 

And his hands on his work, and his life lived apart 

From his much-talking neighbors, excepting times when 

Business called him to mingle among them : and then, 



23 HELEN. 

As confession from one to the other went round, 
Their new neiit^libor a frank, lirig^ht, s^ood felhnv they found. 

V. 

One day, Mark, with his fall plowing;- having i^ot through. 

Was constriicting a fence through a troublesome slough, -•■ 

(A feat taxing the patience subliniest, and one 

With defeat oft attended, and eke with profanity's tone,) 

And in order to get for his posts solid ground, 

Waded in for some distance, till he at length found 

That the bottom, like hope, was delusive, when — plum]) 1 — 

Down, and up to his arm-pits, he sank in a sump. 

In the dark, turbid depths of the slough he was foundered. 

And there, in the slush, like a terrapin floundered. 

Though fate with naught tragic impending was frowning, 

And nil was the proximate danger of drowning, 

Our amateur farmer yet deemed, just at present, 

His status one vastly, grotesquely unpleasant; 

But, trouble's summation to compass right there, 

And o'erwhelm him with misery too great to bear. 

Who should happen along, Init a buxom, brown creature. 

On pony as much like its mistress in feature 

As possible for any being not human 

To be like a bright, budding, beautiful woman! 

The pony with mane, like a hero with glory. 

Was covered : the maid's dark hair told the .same story. 

To a species the pony belonged that was rare : 

As unique was its rider's ensemble as fair. 

* Although slough by the books can rhyme only \\\\.\\ plough, 

Orthoepic lex loci such sound won't allow ; 

For where prairie-grass grows, other way there is none 

Of pronouncing it save as the author has done ; 

And one might as well try to catch grouse with a hook, 

As to go in such cases according to book. 



HELP. 'io 

Hard to be, even by its own mistress, controlled, 
Was the pon\- : the rider was cast in like mould ; 
For she never in life had a master 3'et known, 
And had up to this hour unsubdued c\er gone. 

VI. 

The brown maid did not do what the tN-pic female 

Would presumably do ; for she did not turn pale ; 

Did not shriek ; did not faint ; her sweet hands did not wring ; 

Did not waste precious moments in cross-questioning ; 

But, dismounting, into the abysmal profound 

She began heaving in rails and stakes, to make ground 

For the feet of this mortal o'erwhelmed to stand on. 

Whose foundations as weak as Greek sophists' had grown ; 

And, by timely and practical efforts like this, 

Saved a soul from despair's and from mud's dark abyss ; 

And the settler, from mire of the roiled prairie pond. 

Came like Christian from out of the Slough of Despond, 

And abashed stood, in front of the fair prairie rover, 

A sight fit for satyrs and fawns to laugh over. 

VII. 

If you know, reader, how an aesthetic youth feels, 
Posed in plethoric slush, from his head to his heels, 
With a sweet maiden's ej-es full upon him, alight 
With the liveliest sense of his ludicrous plight. 
And the tide of her laughter through pit}- restraining, 
Yet all the more humbling him b}- thus refraining ; 
Then you can conceive how Mark Landis now felt, 
Face to face with the brown beauty, ready tt) melt 
With chagrin and confusion, in this awkard fashion 
"Mud-monument standing of female compassion. 



20 HELEN. 

VIII. 
The fair gypsey, then mounting her pony once more, 
Said ingenuously to the farm amateur ; 
With a shght vein of humor her manuL-r }>ervading : 
" 'Tis apt to be miry where cattle are wading ; 
The new soil is springy, and water flows under ; 
And that you should get sloughed,^ sir, is surely no wonder." 

IX. 

It Avas hard for young Landis, though trying his best, 

To appreciate this sympathetical jest. 

But he tendered to her his thanks, hearty, sincere, 

With a grace worthy of an old-time cavalier. 

And while then her round face with great good humor beamed, 

And a dim, undefinable something there .seemed 

Underneath her arched eyebrows acquaintance to beckon. 

She said : 

" You are newly arrived here, I reckon." 

X. 

From out of the slime that lay thick on Mark's face, 
And from out of the depths of defeat and disgrace, 
Beamed, through wide-open windows of glowing black eyes, 
A peculiarly Puritan look of surprise, 
As his critical, cultured. New England ear heard 
That robust, dialectal term " reckon " — a word 
Which of good old Kentucky plantation-life rang. 
Whence her accent showed clearly her ancestry sprang. 

He collected himself, and replied : 

" I've been here 

Through the bloom and the harvest that gladden the 3'ear, 

* I may say to those not in the West, reared, that he 
Who holds more of the "juice of the still " than can be 
Borne with ecjuipoise normal, is well iniderstood, 
In the prairie vernacular phrase, to be s/oughed. 



HKIJ'. 27 

And your face I remember not yet to have seen, 
Although, had I once seen it, 'twould surely have been 
Not so quickly forgotten. " 

This last clause he spoke 
To himself, and by no means to her, while his look 
On her singnlarly contradictory face 

Rested still, as if seeking lost thoughts there to trace — 
A face now to him seeming to bear the impress 
Of a deep-underlying, sustained earnestness. 

XI. 

' ' Had 1 been here, ' ' she answered, ' ' you could not have failed 

To discover my pony and me ; for we two have prevailed 

Hereabout, like the ague, since I was a child. 

We've both roamed o'er these prairies, two creatures run wild : 

I go where my Prince takes me ; and that is the way 

That I happened to cross, sir, this prairie to-day. 

Tell me truly, old Prince, if the tntth I have said ;" 

And she ])atted her pet on its forelock-clothed head. 

XII. 

Then the pony, the willful, the shameless, shook hard 
Its old shaggy and mannerless poll, and thus marred 
The brown maiden's fine story. 

" The pony has ways 
Like a woman," said L,andis, "and hence, when it says 
So decidedly ' No,' the response I receive 
As the strong affirmation it wishes to give." 

XIII. 

" Thanks!" the maiden said, archly ; " your liberal rule 
Of interpreting would have been helpful at school, 
Whence but lately I'm l)ack ; and this, sir, is the reason 
You have missed .seeing us for the whole of the season — 



28 



HELEN. 



My pony and me. And we'll now have to go ; 
For old Prince as yon see, sir, the word ,<iives." 

' Not so," 
Answered Landis ; " he's nodding, and that signifies 
Qnite the contrary." 

XIV. 

Laughter in voice and in eyes 
Was her only response ; and Prince now stamped his feet, 
And she gathered the reins, when Mark said : 

' ' Should I meet 
My deliverer after to-day, and desire to express 
For her tiniel\- relief my renewed thankfulness, 
B)' what name shall I call the beneficent sprite 
Who roams over the prairies like chivalrous knight, 
And new farmers from dark depths of misery saves ? " 
As off cantered the pony, she said : 

" Helen Graves." 








,.,,-**- 



-^^'" ' 



CANTO THIRD. 



ASPIRATION. 



I. 

That the Doctor's prescription, as <^iveii to Mark 
In the shadows of those granite hills, when so dark 
Was the vista of hope, and one raj^ only beamed 
To illumine a life that with promise had teemed, 
Was to be on the blossoming plains of the West, 
'Xeath conditions more kindly to earth's toilers blessed, 
With a conscience-strict literalness carried out, 
There was no longer reason nor room for a doubt. 

II. 
Besides sweating like Adam in tilling the ground, 
Mark was careful himself from the first to surround, 
In the way the good Doctor had roughly advised, 
With groups cheery of horses and cattle, and prized 
Very soon their companionship. This became one 
Of the few gleams of pleasure upon him that shone 
In this life so unlike his bright youth-pictured world — 
This life stalwart, and sturdy, and rugged, and gnarled. 
From his wearisome toil in the fields, it was rest 
To consort with his horses, whose fellowship zest 
To his drudger}- gave ; their strong pulse and fresh breath 
Seemed to frighten the dark, lurking shadows of death : 
And, in gazing into their sincere, honest eyes. 
His soul gathered the strength that in sympathy lies ; 
While to mount them, and speed o'er the smooth prairie sward. 
Sent a message of health to the heart's weakest ward. 



30 HEXEX. 

And his oxen and cows, and his heifers and steers, 
These he petted and handled, and lent them his ears, 
IvCarned with care and with patience their language, and granted 
Whatever it was that they told him they wanted. 
He found these retainers dumb told him no lies, 
And no guile he saw lurk in the de])ths of their eyes. 

III. 
For be sure that your true, honest beast never asks 
Any thing out of reason, though >-ou, by your tasks, 
Ask of him things beyond either reason or right. 
And his faith to the death with the cudgel requite. 
When a man plays the tyrant o'er men, the}- can raise 
Revolution's red hand, and set cities ablaze, 
And bear war, desolation, and death in their path: 
Svich resort is left manhood oppressed in its wrath. 
But when poor beasts of burden the victims are made, 
(And with no other beasts is the tyrant-r61e played,) 
For them sleeps no rebellion, no remedies lie. 
But in patience to drudge, and in silence to die. 

IV. 

P'rom these creatures the lesson of patience Mark learned. 

And more clearly from their rude example di.scerned 

Wherein humble contentedness' .secret consists, 

And traced duty's straight lines through sophistical mists. 

This experience served to himself to reveal 

His own heart, and to cau.se him for others to feel. 

Thus the tenderer .springs of his nature were brought 

Into harmony with his refinement of thought. 

And a life that was fragrant of candor and truth 

Coursed the vale of these j-ears of his death-shadowed youth. 



ASPIRATIOX. 31 

V. 

As the winter came on, and the nights longer grew. 

To Mark Landis came thoughts of the day at the slough ; 

And the looks and tones then and there caught and preserved 

As the subjects for reveries frecjuent had served. 

Then, as winter's long evenings come to be spent, 

And as heart of j-outh ever is maidenward bent. 

What more natural sequence of that strange affair, 

Than for Mark to seek out the dark-e3-ed gypsey fair, 

And recall the acquaintance so oddl}- begun? 

As the weeks with celerity o'er him had run 

Since the maid on her pony had galloped awa}'. 

With rich laughter that rang through each subsequent day, 

Glimpses frequent, though fleeting, of her he had caught — 

Of her pony and her — as, with speed of youth's thought, 

And with lightness of love, ever by him they passed; 

And it seemed that ne'er notion that pony possessed 

Within proximate distance of Landis to veer. 

Or to slacken its pace, but straight onward would steer 

Its wild course ; and its rider his greeting, the while, 

Would acknowledge in gleams of so gracious a smile. 

As to keep up the fiction that Prince, and not she. 

Caused the haste in which ever the twain seemed to be. 

VI. 

Up to this point, but little have I sought to saj' 
Of Mark L,andis's mind. I began this nu' lay 
With his body, which had at that time bidden fair 
Soon to let his mind out into realms of the air. 
Whither no bard could follow it ; nor was yet shown 
Any certainty of a long tenure of one 



31 HEIvEN. 

By the other, in this final experiment 

Made in darkening shade of a fateful portent. 

But as minds such as his are not apt, or not wont, 

In the struggle of life, to come oft to the front, 

Wlieii they do come, although it be but for a day 

In the heart of the scene of existence they stay. 

They belong for that day to the world, and to time, 

And their names should be sounded in golden-hinged rhyme. 

Not by any means that I would claim any gilt 

For these rhymes in all bardic humility built ; 

But I would that I had the charmed Orphean power, 

But to tell in one rapt, in one glad, golden hour. 

In a measure pearled, gilded, and diamond-wrought, 

And with rock-moving, tree-stirring melody fraught, 

Of the freshness, the vigor, the strength of this soul. 

Fighting yonder the fight against earth's direst ghoul. 

VII. 

Art had come not to Landis through touch of charmed hand, 

Or through waving by wizard of magical wand. 

"Twas a growth of the soul, from the germ planted there 

By the Hand that wrought earth into all shapes so fair. 

In his soul, in his mind, in his heart, was one thought, 

Which informed him, inspired him, refined him, and l)rought 

Aspirations, and dreams, and impulses in him 

Into harmony ; while the divine gift to limn 

In its myriad phases this thought, had been his 

From his boyhood. And large was the measure of bliss 

And of joy that had sweetened his life in the task 

Of unfolding this gift ; and he durst even ask 

Of tliL- years that should come, that his new-budding name 

Should in time's chosen season bloom forth into fame. 



ASPIRATION. 33 

This one thought, all-engrossing, all-grasping", all-strong, 
Was the thought, the idea, of Beauty. 

VIII. 

The throng- 
Called him artist. Himself he called merely a bowed, 
Httmble worshiper at Beauty's shrine — one endowed 
Not as yet with the mighty, supreme, deathless boon 
Of true genius, to come as the tide should flow on, 
Which he yearned not to hasten. His patience was great 
As his spirit. 

IX. 

The fullness of time to await. 
In the calmness of trust that j-ears justice shall bring, 
Tests most justly true genius. If earth too soon ring 
With the plaudits of fame, O, ye gifted, beware. 
Lest the laurel unfading your brows never wear! 

X. 

Landis deep draughts had drunk, in his sojourn abroad. 

From the pure springs of style that through ages have flowed ; 

After masters had wrought in humility's ways, 

And with painful intentness, through cloud-shadowed days ; 

And yet ne'er was so lost in his love reverent, 

As in lap of the gray past to linger content. 

And to feel it were vain to seek one beam to add 

To the ])rightness that made the world's yesterday glad. 

-XI. 

After Israel's law-giver's precept, he cast 

His look back, to " ask now of the days that are past" ; 

Yet with soul reaching forward to things that shall be, 

And with vision intuitive gifted to see 

Whither lay the true path, and thus clearly discern 

Demands Fame makes of those who her prizes would earn, 

3 



34 IIHLKX. 

He could never sit still, thout;h it i)e at the feet 
Of the masters in whom all the genius-shifts meet. 

XII. 

But to him, no mere abstract idea was art: 

Not a something- from daily existence apart, 

Like a h\ inn chanted in a cathedral, sui)linie, 

Btit yet wide, it may be, of the heart of the time ; 

Not a theme for diversion of leisure that grew 

Hea\>" on white hands burdened with nothing- to do ; 

Not a dogma, to be with zeal swallowed, until 

From divine doctors comes new prescription to fill ; 

Not a dainty conception, to be championed 

By effeminate advocates, mild and soft-toned : 

But a positive, masculine, strong- element, 

Active, healthy, demonstrative, and withal blent 

With the best that was gentle, and tender, and true, 

In life, heart, soul, and nature ; and into and through 

The whole fabric of his earnest life it was wrotight ; 

Formed the base of the logic of all of his thought ; 

lUiilt a rain])Ow to span each day's cloud- sorrowed sky ; 

Hinig a lode-star in hope's starry firmament high ; 

Filled the darkest of nights full of glory and light ; 

Gave his soul content, sweetness, health, courage, and might. 

XIII. 

Such the trend of his mind ; but no still prophet he ; 
For, though modest as maidenhood seemed he to be 
To the outward world, yet when occasion came truth 
Ti) declare as he saw it, to fervor <jf youth 
All the force of strong manhood he added, and spoke 
In a tone that fell stoutly as battle-axe stroke ; 
Then would rush with impetuousness to the charge. 
While his black eyes glowed like a \'ulcanian forge. 



ASPIRATION. 35 

He was \chciuciil. sloriuy, as augurs of war; 
Arbitrary, assertive, as geniuses are; 
Eloquent, with the eloquence stern of a John 
In the wilderness, crying the Sanctified One. 

XIV. 

W'itli a mind thus endowered, a soul thus illumed. 

What might not be forepromised, what not be assumed? 

Ah, the faintness of flesh 1 Ah, the stoutness of s]iirit' 

Were natures in earth-life all frames to inherit 

Proportionate to their immortal parts made. 

O'er cartli's high\va\s what giants, what pigmies would tread! 

XV. 

When young L,andis had come from his studies abroad. 

He was placed face to face with a spectre that strode, 

Undeterred, undebarred, in at life's open porch. 

And stood waiting there, but to extinguish its torch. 

Thus, through brain-striving, hope-hallowed, heart-trusting 

days. 
He had come in his course to the parting of ways; 
And a parley, at this supreme juncture, was had 
With the guest so untimeh-, unwelcome, and dread, 
And a new lea.se of hope made, on terms that left life, 
So had thought the lessee, scarcely worth farther strife. 



CANTO FOURTH. 

I.NSTKICTIOX. 
I. 

Such the fragment of life, dimly lighted with hope, 

That one midsummer eve massive coursers drove up 

To the Graves farm's great gate, which was swung open wide 

By a wild group of younglings in Afric's tinge dyed ; 

And then congeners elder of that dusky race 

Took the team into care, and left L,andis U) trace 

His own way to the dwelling. 

II. 

It may happen now. 
But 'twas rare in those days, that one Ethiop's l^row 
Should show on life's horizon, not followed by more. 
So, when Mark rang the bell at the old farm-house door, 
Sable servitors twain came, with bustle and din, 
Kach in way of the other, to usher him in. 
One was mighty queen regnant o'er hearth and o'er hall. 
From whose mandate exempt was no hope-nursing soul ; 
And the other was one of those imps of this world. 
Through some spite of the other among mortals hurled. 
Cirand, resplendent, was " Aunty", in bandanna bound, 
And the imp mainly robed in the dust of the ground. 
After fierce objurgations a many, the " child 
Of destruction" by " Aunty " was awed, or beguiled, 
Into taking " Mars' Landersiz' " hat to the rack, 
And his card to " Miss Hellun." 



ixsTKucTiox. ;J9 

III. 
. . . Mark lialf started hack 
When before the brown elf of the ])rairie he stood ; 
P'^or he found her, it seemed, in a sorrowing mood, 
As he saw that from weeping her dark orbs were red. 
" I regret to apologize," Helen Graves said, 
W'liile her glance briefly over the caller's form strayed, 
And a smile in the depths of her brimming eyes plaved, 
Like a nymph in the waves of a translucent spring ; 
" l)nt the truth is, that I was arotised by your ring 
From a tale I've been reading, wherein I was moved 
With a scene that too strong for my feelings had proved, 
Which I did not have time to control and subdue, 
When your name was announced." 

IV. 

" And may I troiible you 
To read over the so moving passage for me ?" 
"Willingly ; [pausing slighth', then ;] only, >ou see. 
It is French, and my rendering would but abate 
The fine force of the language." 

v. 

'■ You need not translate," 
He rejoined. Helen colored. 

"Assume, please," she said, 
" That another apology humbl\- is made." 
From the story she read. As l^efore he had been. 
Once again he was rapt in the charms of " Corinne". 

VI. 

Blessings on thee, De Stael! What millions of hearts 
Have been healed l)y the l)alm which that story imparts ! 
While the fair Adriatic melts into the sea, 
Thv grand name will be loved in redeemed Italy ; 



40 HELEN. 

While hearts still bleed and break in the old realm of lo\-e, 
The " last song " of Corinne will a sw^eet solace pro\e ; 
And while France, with all fanlts, shall gem earth's history, 
A wide world of true souls will pay tribute to thee. 

YII. 

The particular passage in question she read : 

And, encouraged !)>■ him, still read on, while he made 

In the pauses his conunents ; and in honest strain 

Praised her accent, o'er which he much marveled ; for then, 

(Now, ah, me ! near a third of a century gone,) 

In this land which instruction's sun feigns to shine on 

With Ijeams specially favoring, boarding-school French 

Was adapted one's feelings with anguish to wrench, 

Whose heart's finest of fibres with discord were stirred, — 

One who loved, and had, loving, in purity heard, 

And oft used, this queen language. And yet he failed not 

Criticism to mingle with praise, pointing out 

Where he deemed some improvement might aptl>- be made, 

To his fine ear suggested. 

VIII. 

The book aside laid, 
Landis, interested, and desiring to learn 
Something more of this mind, in which he could discern 
Signs of iriost select thought, probing gently began. 
And his tentative talk an enlarged circuit ran. 
He first plied her with questions concerning the course 
Of her studies at school, and sought after the .source 
Of the discipline rare which he clearly perceived 
That, bizarre though her ways, her true self had received. 
For he saw, in the limited sphere of her thought, 
Such a thoroughness as compensation had wrought 



INSTRrCTIOX. 41 

For the moderate number of i)aths in the field 

Of book-knowledge that she had )-et trod ; and the yield 

Which had come from her close, careful gleanings thus far, 

Was much richer than girl-gleanings commonly are. 

This idea recurred to him once and again. 

Nor a casual word thereon coidd he restrain. 

IX. 

"Some one must, " he remarked, "the proof surest have 

shown 
Of a friendship as true as sotil ever has known, 
And at feet of such friendship a tribute have laid, 
Which in girlhood or womanhood .seldom is paid. 
For no friend to a girl shows such test of friend's truth. 
As the one who her mind guides aright in its growth. 
All in vain, if the food on which intellect feeds 
Shall the sustenance lack right development needs. 
Will be wisest of precept, and best of example : 
'Tis in shutting out thie^•es that is kept pure the temple. 
Some supremely true soul, with an instinct refined. 
Must have guided and guarded your bourgeoning mind. 
It must be that to such one great honoj is due. 
For I dare not assign the main credit to you. 
For thus steering so clear of the vast transient mass 
Which a young intellect in our shamed day must pass, 
Moving on o'er the sea of light literature — 
The drift, sea-w^eed, and muek, floating islands impure, 
And debris of wrecked souls, which long rotting have Iain, 
And so many a life-barque have whelmed in the main." 

X. 

" M}' selection of reading I owe," she replied, 
" To a lady, a native of France, who supplied 



42 hp:lkn. 

For loui:;^ years the dear place of a mother to me. 
Sad her lot ; lone her life ; dark her heart-mystery. 
As you've been kind enough in m3-self to note, sir, 
Some effects due not partly, but wholly to her, 
If you listen in patience, I will, at some length. 
Tell of her to whom mainly is due what of strength 
There may seem in my character." 

" I am intent," 
He replied, " and my ears shall be earnestly lent." 

" Yet," she said, " bear in mind that there is to reveal 
But Diy side of 

THK STOKY OF MAD.VMK MAKSILK. 

" She had loved Ijut to suffer ; and her suffering- 
Was such only as death its releasement could V)ring. 
She ne'er told me her sorrow ; she said it was one 
Only God's ear could hear ; she must bear it alone, 
And alone see the end. She had with us a home. 
At her choice, till life's close, but was fated to roam. 
Though of origin humble, such culture was hers 
As instruction the highest and choicest confers. 
While her bearing was that of one noble of birth. 
Yet so pure was her nature, so rare was her worth, 
As to make one in her gentle presence forget 
All the barriers wide by society set. 

The great world, in its lights and its shades, she had seen 
Yet her heart ever dwelt in a far-remote scene, 
In a legend-filled ]xart of her land. It was tliere 
She was born : and she said in its bosom so fair, 
When her troubles were ended, she longed to be laid. 
And my father with me a long voyage once made 



INSTRUCTION. 43 

To that spot, to learn if she perchance liad not found 
The sweet rest she had wished in her own native ground ; 
But no trace of her living or dead could we find, 
While I left half my heart in her birth-place behind. 

" She was tender and loving-kind ever to me, 

And as patient as fondest of mothers could be. 

Her corrections were gentlest instruction ; she taught 

That the world is with truest of happiness fraught ; 

And thus carefully strove not to cloud my young days 

With the sadness and anguish that lined all her wajs. 

Less from books than in converse familiar she taught. 

And with nature my mind to commune closely brought. 

vShe went out with me into the fresh, fragrant fields. 

And, while we plucked the blossoms that nature's breast yields, 

Taught me there the old science of bud and of blade, 

As I ne'er could have learned it in books ; then she made 

Me with rock -lore familiar, and thus my mind led 

Into true paths of study, while slowly I read 

Nature's riddle. 

■' To my mental grasp, too, she brought, 
The vast treasures with which human records are fraught. 
She unfolded in converse the world's history, 
And that study a loving one thus made for me. 
She told me, as a nurse tales to childhood may tell, 
The long story of Europe, which thus I learned well. 
She recounted in .sadness the shame of the old. 
And the glory the new that gilds gladly she told — 
How oft ruled, and how hard., hoary wrong, yet how bright 
Kartli was made when at times broke the sunburst of right. 
From her ne'er escaped tones dear to cynical ears ; 
She lost never her hope in the world's better years. 



44 hp:i,kx. 

Tliron.L;li lic-r loxx-d \-oice the past came down niullowcd to int-, 

And ihe ])rescnt I learned in faith's colors to see. 

I fors^ix'e the dear soul for the too partial hand 

\\'ith which ever she garnished her own cherished land : 

'Tis but what I ha\-e found in all text-histories : 

His own realm through stained windows each chronicler sees. 

Hers with eye reverential saw Madam Marsile, 

As his saint devotee ; and her spirit I feel : 

For she told me such tales of her nati\'e Provence, 

As ni\- young heart enlisted in fond lo\e for France. 

" Of m\- reading Avhat care did she take! Yet she gave 
Ever clearest of reasons for interdicts grave ; 
And would say, with an earnest and soul-reaching tone, 
That will ring through my years till the last one be flown. 
Thai ' Dirt ever is dirt, whether trod underfoot, 
F'lecking face, soiling robe, or besmirching repute ; 
Whether blackening tongue, with leer sullying look, 
Or defacing the page of a golden-bound book ; 
Or >'et lurking, with r.ieaning impure, insincere. 
In the sanctified ])ortal of maidenhood's ear. ' 

'■ With supreme healtlifulness antl with wisdom replete 

Was her \aried discourse. In tones hel])ful and sweet 

She imparted the lessons of life, which are framed 

In my soul, in a border of gold, with bright jewels begemmed. 

Once we passed by the bed of a brook, nearly dry. 

' See these pebbles,' she said ; ' though supinely the\- lie, 

Ivet the rain -swollen rixulet over them run. 

And through murmuring ripples they'll laugh to the sun. 

And thus we human pebbles lie listless, until 

Some great sorrow or trouble life's drained channels fdl ; 



INSTRUCTION. 45 

Then our souls through their waves into action are brought, 
And our measureless griefs into rhythm are wrought. ' 

" In the realm of the heart, on a motherless girl 

She bestowed with rare grace wisdom's purchaseless pearl. 

She said : ' Never a soul in all ages made wreck, 

Did it listen to conscience's first gentle beck ; ' 

That ' Whoso stands and waits for that arbiter's frown, 

Has from virtue's high dais one step taken down.' 

And still deeper she went, and gave me such advice 

As was meet for ripe years, and to me beyond price ; 

And I make no excuse, sir, as young maiden might, 

For thus bringing some tenderer truths to the light 

Which she gave me to cherish until day of need. 

Though that day has not come, yet the precepts I heed ; 

And I'm sure they are such as, if followed, far less 

Would the sum in this world make of life-wretchedness. 

" Of affairs of the heart speaking once, this she said, 

On which her mystic troubles strong emphasis laid : 

' To a woman the tribute man highest can pay, 

Is wide open before her his breast-book to lay ; 

And her truth to test can there no way surer be 

Than this act of superlative heart-honesty. 

For a woman, if true to herself and her God, 

And if worthy the crown of endowed womanhood, 

With but honor will view the man who at her feet 

Lays his heart and his hand, though she has but to meet 

W^ith rejection his proffer ; while she who of hearts 

Makes a traffic by fickle and trifling arts, 

Against virtue commits a crime well nigh as great, 

As the selling of soul at the strange woman's gate. ' 



46 IIliLKX. 

With deep earnestness moved, she maintained, that 'Inrst truth. 

And then love, is the order of sequence, in youth, 

In maturity, and through all years of earth's strife' ; 

That 'A love without truth is a soul without life " : 

That 'A woman untrue to one heart on the earth 

Is untrue to the mother from whom she had l^irth.' 

"But, ah ! were I to tell you all things that she said, 
'Twere to fill all the nights till the winter be fled. 
Heaven guard her, if living, in sorrow or pain. 
And bring; back the dear soul to her home here again ! " 



XIII. 

The girl ceased ; and her eyes with tears once more were filled. 

" Could I back to you bring," I^andis said, deeply thrilled, 

" One so noble and gentle, so tender and true, 

By strong, wishing, her form soon would gladden your view. 

I have not been surprised at the portraiture drawn 

Of this being, whose influence over your own 

Has with good been so fraught ; for I traced such a hand 

In your formative thought ; but I reverent stand 

Before her bright ideal. In dreams I have seen 

\\' t)men like her ; but never m}' lot has it been 

To meet one, save her who, while youth's fire my breast 

warmed. 
Was from parent to guardian angel transformed. 
One in sooth nia>' belie\-e such choice si)irits l)ut come 
Upon eartli wlien the heart with deep sorrow is dumb, 
Or when troubles, grown into black clouds, burst in wrath, 
And leave ruin and misery strewn in their path, 
To lift burdens from breasts with their weight overl)orne. 
And pour l)alm o\-er wounds with fresh injuries torn : 



IXSTRUCTION. 49 

Or, when all of humanity's tides have run low, 

To requicken the soul, to rekindle its glow, 

And inspire men and women with ends and with aims 

Above those which the groveling earth-spirit claims." 

XIV. 
" You speak truly and justly," in voice still subdued 
She responded. " But when in my visions I've viewed 
That dear, pale, patient face, as to me it comes back 
Along memory's grateful though sorrows-tinged track, 
I have thought, that if fate in reserve had for me 
So o'erflowing a measure of heart-misery. 
It were mercy to let me glide out of the strife 
In the unchastened years of the morning of life. " 

XV. 

Then they passed on to topics of livelier tone ; 

And Mark, when he his tentative plummet let down 

Into depths of her girl's understanding, discerned 

That not simply from nature's store more had she learned 

Than from books, but that what of the ways of mankind 

As in flush life pursued (not in fancy outlined) 

She had conned, was that from observation which conies. 

Rather than from perusing of multiplied tomes. 

And in fact it was evident that he could cite 

A full score of young women within the short flight 

Of a fledgling bird fresh from its nest, who of books 

And their authors could chatter like rooks, 

And by long odds could out-chatter her. But this fact 

Served in nowise in Landis's mind to detract 

From the estimate he had been forming of one 

Who had furnished new food for his thoughts to feed on ; 

And he now the more strongly inclined to view her 

As a fresh and most womanly life-integer, 

4 



60 HELEN. 

And decidedly worth further study, and — well, 

Of his further iuclinings I shall not now tell ; 

But — what minds like his fashioned of all things prefer — 

He had found Helen Graves a superb listener. 

XVI. 
Thus the evening waned ; and ere they were aware, 
The great parlor-clock's face was beginning to wear 
A look anxious and sharp, with hands raised to its brows ; 
And with L,andis a serious question arose, 
As to where were the darkies, and where was his team ? 
But in yon immense kitchen, enveloped in dream, 
And before a huge fire, lay swart forms bivouacked, 
Ready promptly to spring into action when waked 
By the stern voice of " Aunty, " who would as .soon think 
Of projecting her soul o'er eternity's brink, 
As to seek her repose until " Miss Hellun " slept, 
O'er whose slumbers that true heart had watch and ward kept 
All her years, as it had o'er the slumbers of her 
From whom Helen had life, in the Southland afar. 

XVII. 

The team duly was brought ; the good-nights were exchanged ; 
And Mark Landis drove homeward, while through his mind 

ranged 
Thoughts like these : 

XVIII. 
" Strange that here, in this land of to-day, 
In the newness and freshness of nature, away 
From the culture and brain of the F^^ast, I should find, 
In this girl running wild on the prairie, combined 
Qualities I had thought were the product supreme 
Of our civilization's established regime, 



IXSTRUCTIOX. 51 

Where, on fruitage in bright, chosen homes of its own, 
Beams with brilHancy focal enhghtenment's sun ! 
But thus far, in my roaming the Old World and New, 
Amid all natures fair that have burst on my view, 
I have here, in this nook of the rough-seeming West, 
Found humanity blossoming forth at its best. 

XIX. 

" Have I then a new lesson in wisdom to learn ? 
Is this one of the earnests that I am to earn 
In this field of instruction and struggle combined, 
So in contrast with what hope to yovith had outlined ? 
Am I here to discern that the soul -germ in man 
Over-culture as oft can enervate as can 
Over-tillage the fructuous strength of the earth, 
And to soul, as to soil, carry weakness and dearth ? 

XX. 

" For an hour of diversion I went. I obtained 
Large instruction from life's rich experience gained. 
The keen, saucy, and challenging eyes I had deemed 
Half invited me to a flirtation, have beamed 
A whole evening with but sincereness on me ; 
And the voice that had once seemed a hoyden's to be 
Rang as ring voices ever where life-issues teem. 
And rings still like a monitor heard in a dream. 

XXI. 

" Is then all of the credit due Madame Marsile, 
And to Helen Graves none ? Does not nature reveal 
Signs of latent strength borrowed not, — even that she 
Thereof lender might rather than borrower be ? " 

XXII. 

Thus mused Mark, while returning from this, his first call 
On the bright beauty who had smiled soft o'er his fall 



52 HELEN. 

Ill the Slou.^h of Despond. Odd result, this, in faith. 
From e\ent so j^rotestjue ! In the drama of breath 
We enact in this world, ah, how close interwrought 
Are the o;rave and the comic, in deed and in thought. 
In life's prose and its poetry ! Sorrows impinge 
On the borders of pleasure, and tragic dyes tinge 
The disguises that earth's merry maskers employ, 
And the seams of the robes of the daughters of joy. 

XXIII. 

As to Helen's original strength, both of mind 

And of soul, I have views of my own, which, defined 

To Mark Landis that night, might have helped him to solve 

Queries still ceasing not in his mind to revolve, 

And with puzzling emotions to stir up his breast 

After he had betaken himself to his rest. 

XXIV. 

Men and women ofttimes their ideals transcend 

In the forming of character. When, with clear end, 

One adopts as a model some nature benign. 

One is a])t to invest it Avith traits half divine ; 

And the model ere long grows beneath loving hands. 

Till embodied with all of the graces it stands. 

Thus are idols and saints formed on earth ; and of kin 

Is the worship of heroes. 

XXV. 

And let him begin 
Who has taste for such work, that of battering down 
All these idols so dear, and of tearing the crown 
From each one of these saints : not for me be the task ; 
Naught of this glory iconoclastic I ask. 
Let alone my Penates and Lares, I cry, 
And I'll let alone yours. Now, if nou choose to try, 



INSTRUCTION'. o3 

Ye inquisitors, this soul of mine on the charg-e 

Of idolatry, then, in the liberty large 

Wherewith He, the Grace-Giver, hath made us all free, 

My appeal from the old to the new law shall be. 

XXVI. 

Full of fictions is life. Even strongest of laws 
Are based on legal figments. Full many a cause 
Looking toward humanity's betterment rests 
On assumptions enduring not logic's stern tests. 
Richest, healthiest, truest of wisdom is taught 
Through thin fabrics of fancy in fable-land wrought. 
Yea, in parable-fiction the Nazarene gave 
Supereminent truths which a lost race should save. 
These saints, idols, and heroes that you would destroy 
Are but fictions that mortals imperfect employ 
To embody traits, sentiments, truths, making up 
Much of life's better aggregate. Faith, purpose, hope, 
All are outlined in them. \^andals, pause ere j-ou deal 
Your harsh, leveling blows ! Truth's own spirit may feel 
Their destructive effects ! Ay, 'tis well to take heed. 
Lest you make the Heart once crucified freshly bleed. 

xxvn. 
I think Helen Graves was — as scarce one who is not — 
A confirmed hero-worshiper ; and, having sought 
An exemplar the highest in Madame Marsile, 
And of her learned with healthiest promptings to feel, 
And to think in a crystal-clear channel, she then. 
What we all do, (that is, bear in mind, when we can,) 
Had improved on the model. I think that the love 
Of that woman so noble availed but to prove 
All the truth and the strength of our Helen's great soul : 
And when no more she .saw of her who held control 



54 



HKLKN. 



Of the springs of her heart, her ideal she wrought, 
With gold-garnishment, into an idol, and l^rought 
Unto it all the tributes her mind could invent, 
Till the idol became one in which there were blent 
Hardly more of the traits that graced Madame Marsile, 
Than of those Helen's life had not failed to reveal. 

XXVIII. 

If of this high ideal, grown in soul and in heart, 
Helen was in her future at times to depart. 
And o'ercast was at .seasons her lodestar to be, 
'Twould be but a time-worn demonstration that she, 
In her spirit as fresh as the first breath of day. 
Like all mortals must fail -who perfection essay. 




CANTO FIFTH. 

IDKALITY. 
I. 

When Mark Landis awoke the next morning, it seemed 
That the sun with a splendor unusual beamed, 
And that somehow there had, in the night's shadows past, 
From his back some small part of his burden been cast ; 
And thus through the thick clouds that had hung over him, 
There came some rays of hope, e'en though feeble and dim ; 
And he went to his work with a much lighter heart 
Than a twelvemonth had seen. 

II. 
Whence this change ? Had a dart 
From love's quiver pierced barely the outermost fold 
Of his breast, into life warmed its breath that was cold, 
And from out of its winter waked spring ? . . . He repelled 
The suggestion, and surel}- would promptly have quelled 
Any rising like this which appeared. 

' ■ What had he — 
He, the invalid, struggling for leave but to be, — 
What had he, with his fraction of life, that a breath 
Might waft out into blankness of night and of death. 
To do now with such feeling as love ? 'Twas for him 
First to settle accounts with the creditor grim 
That stood firmly before him, inflexible Fate, 
And find wliat to himself was the balance that vet 



56 hkt.i:n. 

Might, if an>-. be due. As to this new event, 

'Twas indeed very strange, if what only was meant 

As a simple exchange of life's courtesies, made 

Between two chance acquaintances, each with clear head, 

Were construed into anything more or beyond ! 

An idea absurd ! " 

III. 
Keep your scorn within bound, 
O, Mark ! None hath accused you, at least have not I ; 
For I fancy the rift in the cloud that your sky 
Long o'ercast has but come from the fact that Nour mind 
Has enjoyed a release from the chain that confined 
Its fresh thoughts ; a relax from the tension that strained 
Your 3-oung, vigorous nature, which thus has regained 
Something of its old strength and elastic reserve, 
And refelt the keen touch of 3-our bright spirit's verve : 
Yet one can but be with the conviction impressed. 
That if such an effect be produced in your breast 
By a mere visit for your diversion thus made, — 
A bare casual call on a young prairie-maid,— 
If so quickening be the result to your heart ;— 
(I speak now, of course, of its mechanical part. 
Which performs all the labor divine, and sublime. 
Of maintaining life's poise through the beatings of time. 
And adjusting the faintest vibrations that thrill 
This mysterious being of ovirs ; ) — wh)', to fill 
The prescription again, to a layman would seem 
The advice which all doctors the soundest must deem. 

IV. 
Whether such advice was, in fact, given to Mark, 
I know not. But I know that the sweet meadow-lark * 



IDEALITY. a 

With cxhilaraiit song had not twice taken wing 

O'er the bloom-sprinkled prairie, tlie following spring, 

Ere the j-oung artist- farmer repeated his call 

More than once, more than twice, — but I can not tell all 

Of the times that he called, for I was not a sp>- 

On his movements ; though I could tell where to apply, 

Information complete thereupon to obtain, 

And much other analogous knowledge to gain, 

Which I give not. For certain industrious souls 

A most faithful count kept of each one of those calls, 

And by no means thought proper to burden the earth 

With their silence. These spirits of superfine worth, 

As they have evergreen memories, I dare say, 

Could Mark's comings and goings relate to this day. 

v. 
But no matter. The massive and radiant bays 
Of the new Yankee farmer, on balm-breathing days 
Of the swift-speeding spring-tide, as well as on eves 
Of the summer all golden with fruitage and sheaves, 
Were the swinging gate of the Graves farm driven through, 
Or his handsomest saddle-steed hitched thereunto, 
None too frequenth- for the fair Helen ; and she 
Being satisfied, every one else ought to be. 

But which one of us all has )■ et made a success 
Of the effort of running life's difficult race 
In a manner to suit all spectators ? And who, 
If he tried to suit all, would with credit get through ? 

VI. 
L,et it not be assumed that Mark Landis had slacked 
In his energy, or that his labor now lacked 
The same interest for him it had at the start. 
On the contrarv. now he more closelv at heart 



58 HELEN. 

SeeiiKd to have- Ihc great work of liis larni, and to be- 
So absorbed in detail-s the minutest, that he, 
'Twas imagined and said by the wise lookers-on, 
Must afTord very poor entertainment for one 
Prizing, like Helen Graves, conversation refined ; 
And these sage ones nnich questioned " what Helen could find 
To endure in one who of naught save hog and horse. 
And corn, pumpkins, and turnips would ever discourse." 

VII. 
Let us see with what themes L,andis freighted the tides 
Of his converse with Helen, in drives and in rides. 
Driving out with her once, he grew eloquent, while 
Speaking, in his old, ardent, impetuous style. 
Of the sister-relation Art ever should bear 
To Religion. 

VIII. 

'Twas evening. vSummer's soft air 
Gently stirred with a breath from the wide prairies blown. 
At its full was the white harvest-moon. Never shone 
Stars in all of creation's long seons with light 
That was purer, sublimer, more heavenly bright. 
The fair landscape in silver}^ radiance lay 
Spread before them in peace - — ^the fond dream of the day. 
The all-prevalent life of the harvest-fields slept. 
And, while sleeping, breathed deeply with fragrance, which 

.swe]it 
ICver past them, diffusing all health-gi\-ing scents, 
While they passed on from farm unto farm, as through tents 
Of an army encampment the sentinels move. 
While the foot-wearv .soldiers in slumberland rove. 



idi:aijty. 59 

IX. 

With a fervor he spoke which he could not restrain, 
Yet with reverent spirit. And Hke the refrain 
Of a grand hymn prophetic, there fell on her ears, 
Ra]")t in listening silence, tliis dream of the years : 

X. 

" The rare bard at whose feet England's grand laureate 

In the morn of his fame in rapt reverence sat, — 

The bard who of Endymion fair sang in strain 

That brought those of the ' Sweet Swan of Avon ' again, — 

' Things of beauty ' pronounced 'joys forever ' — a truth 

Fresh perennially as the first blush of youth. 

Where a rose has once bloomed, there's a memory left 

Of its fragrance and loveliness, e'en when bereft 

Is the place where it budded and blossomed of all 

That in substance the rose and its tree can recall. 

So, where once a creative design has had birth, 

And on canvas, in marble, or metal, stood forth, 

And brought jo}- to the hearts of beholders, the thought 

That the master's deft touch into beauty hath wrought, 

And hath crystallized into pure art, will endure 

When the tablet, the stone, or the sheet is no more. . • 

XI. 

"Whosoe'er hath wrought out, in the kingdom of art, 

But one beautiful thing, hath thereby borne a part 

In true worship. His heart, and his mind, and his soul. 

Have in part tasted of the ineffable whole. 

He has entered the temple ; has bowed at the altar ; 

And though in the faith he may afterward falter. 

His eyes the Shekinah once having beheld. 

He is thence bv a tie to the Infinite held 



60 HELEN. 

W'liicli takes hold on the things in eternity's store, 
And is nearer forever to God than before. 

XII. 

" As relationship time to eternity bears, 

And t)ur earth-days are germs of the winterless years, 

vSo tlie h)ve of the Beautiful, planted within 

The deep breast of humanity here, is akin 

To the hope in the soul of immortal life there, 

And, if nurtured aright, ripens taste into prayer. 

And moulds art into worship. No dream of the l^rain, 

No heart-longing for that which is lovely, is vain ; 

F'or the beautiful tends to develop the true, 

And the true to the heavenly opens the view. 

XIII. 

" O, >e shadows of Calvary ! Once through your gloom 

The Unblamable One to the lowliest tomb 

Passed in martyrdom glorified : must he again 

Taste the gall-mingled cup for redemption of men ? 

Have the cjxles of centuries run but in vain 

Since was rent the great veil of the Temple in twain ? 

XIV. 

" Though, O God of the nations, tin- mere}- l)e long ; 

Though thy anger be slow, as thy right arm is strong : 

And though through the Incarnate One's love-laden word, 

In just judgment falls not the sharp, up-lifted sword. 

Vet we know through all time can not stern justice sleep ; 

Not fore'er can the Christ from dire punishment keep 

The false peoples who, holding His Gospel in trust 

For the world, have allowed it to trail in the dust, 

And belied and betrayed it in bitterest shame. 

And with cowardice base, and have made of His name 



IDEALITY. 61 

A safe refuge for error ; a cover for crime ; 

An excuse for the sins of the bad of all time ; 

A warm nest-eg-g for heresies, endless and numberless ; 

A text for the infidel, tireless and slumberless ; 

A football of dogma, for priests' bickerings ; 

A convenient occasion for quarrels of kings ; 

A pretext for republics from men rights to wrest, 

Under guise of humanity, — demagogues, dressed 

In robes statesmanlike, leaguing with prelates and sages 

To mould into statutes the hatreds of ages. 

XV. 

" Tell me not there's no end for Art yet to attain. 

While th' elect bride of Christ remains sundered in twain ! 

Say not, Art has no mission, while each faction stands, 

Not with loving looks, clasping outstretched, friendly hands. 

Like two sisters who self in His spirit den}-. 

And in love's fondly emulate rivalry vie ; 

But with hate-heightened scowls, and a clutch fastened close 

Each on throat of the other, but death can unloose ! 

XVI. 

" Guest in Bethany welcomed, once more visit earth ! 

But not yonder, where magi brought gifts at thy birth ; 

Not in Africa's gloom,, nor in drowsy Cathay, 

Thy blest visit repeated to hungered earth pay ; 

But here, in the bright heart of enlightenment, be 

Thy millenial advent, where men honor thee 

With lip-service, while strewn in their hearts, cold and still, 

Lie the memories sacred of Olivet's hill ! 

Preach once more, as thou didst among Judean rocks. 

And the false shepherds tell, who are tending thy flocks. 

O'er a literal gospel their brains straining hard. 

To rank blas])hemy turning thy symbolized word, 



63 HELEN. 

And c'inplu}ini;- thy precepts, with purxiew sublime, 
And as broad as the sweep of the circuit of time, 
In augmenting of wrangling and kindling of strife, 
That ' the letter but kills, while the spirit gives life ! ' 
As thou once didst rebuke, on Capernaum's coast, 
Rebuke now the proud wisdom the scholiasts boast. 
Who to-day of all learning broad doubt-channels make, 
And the faith of the faithful by subtleties shake ! 

XVII. 

..." Let us draw men from l:)rooding on problems intense, 

Which can never be solved in the dim realms of sense, 

And a wonship through forms of the beautiful teach ; 

For as well through the eye as the ear may we reach 

The great heart of the world, which the true prophet's word 

But awaits, to reverberant life to be stirred. 

Let the lie into gaunt Dogma's teeth be hurled l)ack, 

On which Bigotry feeds in the centuries' track, 

That Jehovah loves not to be worshiped in forms. 

And desires but abasement of us mortal worms. 

Though in manger born, yet claimed the Chri.st as his own 

The grand Temple, and taught from the very same throne 

Whose adornment God's self supervised ; yea, thence spurned 

Those its courts from their purpose divine who had turned. 

xviii. 
" Let us rebuild the temple of Beauty once more, 
Which late pagans have razed — its old glories restore. 
Better rankest idolatry through all the earth , 
Than theology giving perennial birth 
But to heart-burnings, bickerings, hatreds, and feuds ; 
Better blind faith than spirit o'er Hades that broods ; 
Better on the ' high places ' the images back, 
Than refinements of thought which the God-essence lack." 



IDKALITV. 63 

XIX. 

Then grew calmer his tone ; and Uke stars in dark skies, 

With a softened look beamed his large, lustrous, black eyes ; 

And he spoke of the future of Art, and the years 

It must live 'neath a cloud ; of the scoffs and the jeers 

That await those who seek to wed worship and art, 

Till the day, in God's calendar true set apart, 

When the mind of the world shall be fully prepared 

Such a bridal to celebrate, Heaven-declared. 

XX. 

" Yet 1 know, that, as sure as the years are all God's, 

Will the time come when Art, bursting up 'neath its clods, 

Shall rebourgeon, and blossom, and fill all the earth, 

And be first in men's minds, as 'tis first in true worth. 

I am sure that through beauty shall purit}- come ; 

I am sure that through harmony strife shall be dumb ; 

I am sure that the core of humanity's heart 

Will l)e sound when 'tis filled with the love of true art. 

In those 3'ears peace shall reign under every star, 

And mankind shall then blu.sh for the ages of war ; 

And no man shall stand forth with a claim to renown 

For the slaughter of men, or ask fame's laiireled crown 

For the wasting of lands, and for ravaging homes. 

Through the red hand of might, when that golden day comes." 

XXI. 

And thus closed the long monologue. Wrapped in a maze 
Of awakened thought, dream, and delight, with the gaze 
Of her deep eyes intently fixed still on his own. 
Sat the brown maiden, noting each gesture and tone. 
And his words well-nigh deeming inspired : for they were 
As a new revelation of truth and of dutv to her. 



04 HELEN. 

Willi such c'lociucuce had his voice pleaded the cause 
Of a Christianized art, as in her to arouse 
The enthusiasm but by such natures possessed ; 
And she sat with her soul in her features expressed. 
Had the words not then failed her to his to respond, 
He had realized more than e'er yet how profound 
Were the depths of her nature. Her soul's subtlest sense 
Had been thrilled with his earnest and nerved elocjuence. 
Though he spoke as addressing her girlhood, yet she 
In her womanhood felt the full force of his plea ; 
And she longed for the language to him to reveal 
W'hat a woman can think, what a woman can feel. 
Yet a .something within her, she could not tell what, 
(For most surely in words, as a rule, she lacked not,) 
Clogged expression, and silence attentive she kept. 
While a flood of confused feelings over her sweut. 

XXII. 

Who shall tell whence arise, to the lips and the tongue. 
Those strange moments of weakness, when thought-strains 

have rung 
In our minds, while in impotent dumbness we stood, 
Lacking words with the adequate meaning indued 
To express them ? So easily, when past the hour, 
Can we think what were said, had we then had the power ! 
Like the bugle-refrain sadly sounding retreat 
When the day of a battle is dimmed with defeat, 
Come these after-thoughts, trooping in silence and shade, 
Past where lost opportunities' graves have been made ; 
And by each striving soul thus regret's aftermath 
Must be gleaned with the aloe that springs in life's path. 



1 1)]-: A LIT V 



05 



As her frcsli, prraspinj;- mind comprehended the scope 

Of the thoughts Mark had uttered, a new and great hope 

Was to Helen's heart l)orn : 'twas that she might be deemed 

h'it to help in fulfilling this dream he had dreamed. — 

To glean after this Boaz, a meek, humble Ruth, 

In the harvest-fields whitened of duty and truth. 




CANTO SIXTH. 



REPUTATION. 



I. 

Sped the months. 

Once again the fall -plowing was done ; 
And two seasons of bronzing in wind and in sun, 
And of toughening sinews, and hardening hands. 
And appeasing with hearty food hunger's demands. 
And of sleeping the sleep of the weary, had wrought 
Such a change in Mark Landis as scarce would have tliought 
"The good Doctor, with all his advice, possible, 
AVhen he bade Mark good bye, with presentiments full. 

II. 
But the signs in this year's later months had not been 
•To his health as propitious as last year's had seen : 
For the over-exertion he lately had made, 
As amends penitential for courtesies paid 
"To the sweet prairie-maiden, had told on his frame ; 
And to this may be added the conflict wdiich came 
In liis breast Avhen his intercourse with her commenced. 
And had never al)ated. His heart he had fenced 
With the strongest resolve, and his feelings had steeled 
Against love's soft approaches, so as ne'er to yield 
Unto even the faintest suggestion thereof ; 
And had bent all his energies faithful to prove 



UKPI'TATIOX. 67 

To this purpose. The kind of an interest, rather, 
In 3-oung sister taken by kind, watchful brother, 
In Helen Mark took — or, at least, sought to take. 
Ah ! These brother-and-sister arrangements to make, 
'Tis a far from .safe thing for young per.sons to tr>-. 
When they wish to sail safely love's tanglements by. 

III. 
I presume that the fact ma}- as well here be told. 
That Mark Landis had found something taking strong hold 
Of his heart, which was very like love ; and the more 
He endeavored to drive it away from his door. 
The more stoutly it clung to the lintel. Still, still 
AVas the old story told, and o'er strongest of will 
Nature gained one more triumph. 

And while the old sun 
. Through yon archway his courses diurnal shall run ; 
While athwart night Orion shall sentinel stand ; 
While the sea shall caress or in rage smite the strand ; 
While the moon shall her cpiarters all noiselessly fill, — 
Will the plaintiff the suit win of Heart versus Will. 

rv. 
Mark was smitten in con.science. 

" Was this, then, the length 
Of his great resolution ? W'as this, then, the strength 
Of his purpose ? " 

Ah, Mark, you are strong where may count 
Mortal strength ; but shame not at your failing to mount 
Without wings to empyreal heights. You have proved 
To be human, divine not at all. You have loved 
As all mortals have loved since young Adam first blushed 
When his heart with the new-born emotion was flushed. 



68 HELEN. 

V. 

Such the cause of the storm that had raged in his breast, 
Robbing him of his peace and his sore-needed rest, 
Since the midsummer glories had gladdened the land ; 
Yet his step had not faltered, nor wavered his hand ; 
And to outward appearances he was as fresh 
As the hawk newly sprung from the falconer's leash. 
This was shown by the voice that expression found, when. 
At the cross-roads, or corners, were gathered the men 
Of the neighborhood. 

For the male bipeds, be sure, 
Have their talk-tournaments, where they closely scan o'er 
And inspect all their neighbors' affairs, inside out 
Turn them, air them, and shake them, and hand them about, 
Quite as thoroughly and as assiduously 
As the females ; the difference seeming to be 
Merely this : that the m^n gossip 'neath the wide sky. 
Where the wandering wind, as it sweeps idly by, 
Catching up the discourse, bears it on and beyond, 
And far out of humanity's gossiping bound : 
While the women their tales are 'twixt walls wont to tell. 
And, confined, these brew discord, and into storms swell, 
Which sweep down through the valleys of life, and lay waste 
Hearts and hopes, and work wrongs that can ne'er be effaced. 

VI. 
Once, in front of the old country store, the high seat 
.Of the storied vicinity muse, and retreat 
Of the plenal and versatile oracles found 
In all places where wagging tongues human abound, 
On a mild afternoon in the autumn's brown heart, 
While the blackbirds were noisily piping their part. 



KKPrTATIOX. 71 

And the qviails piping theirs, in the grand syniphon} 
That great nature wrought out of her stored melody, 
Sat, on boxes, and barrels, and boards, as they could, 
The select coterie of the whole neighborhood. 
And the theme that was up for discussion, this da}-, 
Was Mark Landis's gifts in the farm-tilling way. 
On the i^opular pulse his hard labor had told ; 
Each voice rustic this cardinal virtue extolled ; 
And the muscular multitude's sympathies showed 
A most notable change since his land Mark first trod. 

VII. 

Farmer Graves, who decidedly stood at the head 

Of the neighborhood thought, being questioned, thus said : 

" It speaks fa'r for the day that we live in, my friends. 

For a young man of talent and brain to seek ends 

Like young Mark is pursuing. ' Old times come again,' 

As we used in Kaintucky to say. It was then 

That the highest ambition of youth was attained 

When right fit to fill stations their fathers had gained ; 

And then tilling the soil with success held a rank 

Beside which the professions in dignity sank." 

VIII. 
''Es fur plowin' an" harrerin", plantin' an' hoein"," 
Said rough Roger Robbins, "an' right down clean mowin', 
An' cuttin' an' huskin', an' shockin' up corn, 
He's a ripper an' staver, as sure as yer born." 

IX. 

"An' in rakin' an' bindin', an' loadin' on hay, 
There's no man wants to tackle him over our way," 
Added big Elam Perkins, in voice loud and deep, 
W^hich had never known silence, except in his sleep. 



72 HKI.KN, 

X. 

Spoke old FaniK-r Dalryniple . " Now niiii' what I Icll \-c • 
Ef >'er takin' that chap fnr a j^recn 'tin, he'll sell >'e." 

XI. 

Ouoth smart Jockey Ilaniestrap : " I'd i^o my whole ])ile 
On his jedgmeiit when't comes to a race of a mile." 

XII. 

" Got a heap o' horse sense," said the mana.^-er keen 
Of the peripatetical threshing-machine. 

XIII. 
And the sage, periodical lightning-rod man 
Had his say, the which something in this manner ran : 
" I strike all sorts o' customers goin' my round, 
An' I tell ye the beat o' him ain't to l)e found." 

XIV. 
So each one spoke his mind ; and they all were agreed, 
That the young Yankee farmer " would do" 'Twas decreed 
Thus by Public Opinion. 

My hat off I take. 
As I pass, and a low, regulation bow make 
To this power, in order to be in the fashion. 
Though, if I must "wreak" my true "thoughts on expres- 
sion, ' ' 
'Twixt you and me, reader, (not farther to go,) 
I rate average public opinion down low — 
Very low. 'Tis a Gessler, that places its hat 
On a pole, and we freemen must l)ow down to that : 
And woe be unto any poor ,son of the cliffs 
Who .shall .seek to play Tell, with his bids and his ifs : 
"Off with cap, varlet ! Instantly all scruples swallow, 
Or swift, vengeful punishment surely shall follow ! " 



RKITTATION. 73 

XV. 

In the course of two seasons, Mark Landis acquired 

A repute after which he by no means aspired. 

As free gift came to him a boon which to attain 

Struggle thousands through soul-weary lives but in \-ain. 

While his fame was not wide as the gates of the da\-. 

It was patent, and loud, and intense, in its wa}- : 

And this is, after all, what most pleases the ear : 

Hot ambition, impatient, loves rather to hear 

Notoriety's howls welkin-echoes awake. 

Than slow-earned judgments just, names immortal that make, 

XVI. 

But while Landis cared not for this neighborhood fame, 
And no pleasure to him from its small glory came, 
There was proof, in the way the pleased populace hollowed, 
That the Doctor's ad\-ice had been faithfully followed. 

XVII. 

— Followed only too rigidly ; for if, ahead 

Looking, could the good Doctor the story have read 

Of the fierce moral struggle, which still fiercer grew 

In Mark's breast, he would surely have written anew 

His prescription ; as no human frame could sustain 

Over long both the mental and bodily strain 

Which for months he had borne, and who.se l)urden, at last, 

Was too great to be longer endured. 

XVIII. 

On the past, 
On the recent, sweet past, did his thoughts linger yet, 
With a mingling of pleasure and poignant regret. 
" O," he said to himself, " could this glad vision be, 
What a wealth were in store in existence for me ! 



74 in-:i,KN. 

What Lxccss of the beautiful, ^'^entlc, and true, 

Over all I had dreamed ! Will again on my view 

Dawn a light such as this ? Yet I ask for none here ; 

And hereafter — 'twill come, the hereafter, I fear. 

All too quickly. Ah ! Now, when 'tis weak in ni}- grasp, 

Life's boon, once underrated, I eagerh- clasp." 

XIX. 

Then remorse lashed his soul with it^i scorpion whips. 

" Why have I, with a lie's spirit liming my lips, 

Talked to her of life, hope, ardor, beauty, and truth — 

I, a shadow of death, and a ghost of lost youth ? 

Why have I placed myself before her, in the .spring 

Of her life, in her blossoming years — I, a thing 

That to-morrow may be among things of the past, — 

Challenging and inviting her love, which would last 

Through the years, while I only endure for a day ? 

In her ej-es I have read, methinks, love's dawning ra}'. 

If aright I have read, then the more shame for me; 

For so fatal a love for her never must be. 

No, it never shall be ! 'Twere a burning disgrace 

To link my life of mold with that spirit of grace. 

'Tis not too late to halt, though I've now gone too far." 

XX. 

He decided the question. For him and for her 

The right thing to be done was to give her up now, 

While he could with some graciousness ; now, while the blow 

She could bear ; now, while strength was yet left him to l)reak 

The dear-, wrongly forged chain ; now, when she could awake 

Without harm to her heart, from the dream ; now, when earth , 

For her life such a field of bright promise held forth. j 



CANTO SEVENTH. 



KKXUXCIATIOX. 



1. 

It was Indian vSummer. 

O, muse that inspired 
The charmed pen of him, ne'er by a base passion fired, 
Who. in strains that will live while the plains of the West 
Shall with each blooming" spring be in fresh \erdure dressed; 
Of " The Prairies " sang when, in garb primal spread out,. 
They reflected the glorj^ of Deity's thought; 
Be with me w'hile I stray with two mortals among 
Scenes of beauty as bright as bard ever hath sung. 
Which in this season nature doth richly unfold. 

Like a ruby-set diamond, bordered with gold, 
Was each day of the radiant cluster that crowned 
Such an autumn as seldom the sun in his round 
Shines upon. The fields still were unshorn of their green; 
Blossoms here and there still, the frosts scorning, were seen; 
And the groves, with whose selvage the prairies were fringed, 
Were with purple and scarlet and russet dyes tinged. 

II. 
The great bays of Mark Landis once more through the gate 
Of the Graves farm had entered, and now stood in wait 
For its pet and its pride. 

When she came, Helen seemed 
Robed in joy as in beauty, and from her eyes beamed 



76 iiicijcx. 

But the light of true happiness; then, as Mark dwelt 
On the A-ision, for one glowing moment he felt 
His stern jnirpose relax, while the old chains he wore, 
And his spirit bent 'neath her enchantments once more. 

III. 
As the reins in his practised hands lighth- lie took. 
Helen gazed at the beautiful team with a look 
That she would not have dared to bestow upon him — 
At the arch of their necks, and their cleanness of limb, 
At the grace of their movements, the strength of their thews, — 
'Twas a team, she thought, worthy to grace the Queen's mews. 
On their lithe, supple bodies their mu.scles were laid 
Far more neatly than finest robe Worth ever made 
On the form of Parisian patron. And proud 
Did they .seem of their this day's additional load. 
All! how lightly they lifted their feet as they stepped, 
And what time as they flew o'er the prairie they kept! 
With arched nostrils distended, and manes flowing free, 
That bay team with its load was a rare sight to see! 
So thought all of the farmers, as Landis drove b\-; 
And each wife and each daughter, with penetrant e\e. 
Peered through door held ajar, or through lighth- rai.sed cur- 
tain, 
x\nd " iliat match " set down among human tilings c^-rtain. 

IV. 

Onward sped the bright bays. In each ionise of her frame 
Helen Graves felt the life of the scene. 

When they came 
To a by-road that wound through a beautiful grove, — 
Such a grove as no poet could see but to love. 
In which Petrarch might, Laura adoring, have strolled, 
Or which Virgil in golden verse might have extolled, — 



RENUXCIATIOM. V7 

The ineanderin,i^- course of the track Mark pursued, 
Which seemed nowhere to lead save to depths of the wood. 

V. 
He now let the bays walk. 

How the grove's still aisles rang 
With the songs that the wood-birds from million throats sang! 
It must surely have been that they o'erflowed with glee. 
To have such listeners to their wild melody. 

Yes, good audience had they, these jubilant birds; 
For, to Helen's perplexity, few were the words 
That her escort had uttered yet during the drive — 
He whose joy was in making occasion alive 
With his superabounding discourse; while the tact 
(Or unwisdom) to force conversation she lacked. 
And thus sat these two beings, accordant in heart, 
But in thought wide as utterest strangers apart. 

VI. 

Mark at length said, half musing: 

' ' The songs these birds sing 
Are the self-same refrains that they sang in the spring; 
And they trill them in fully as cheerful a tone, 
Though the days of their singing here soon will be flown. 
Why were mortals not wiser, in tasting of joy, 
Did they copy the birds, who detect no alloy 
In their pleasure, and warble their strains while they may, 
Ringing ever of hope and a happier day? " 

VII. 

This, expressed in unspeakable sadness of strain, 
Helen's heart thrilled with keenest sensations of pain. 
She responded not. Words had no meaning for her 
In that moment. Her breast and her breath ceased to stir. 



78 HELEN. 

E'en her heart into silence was hushed. 

What was this, 
That was shaping in shadow to darken her bliss ? 
What was this, which like first cloud of tempest had sprung 
In a trice, and her glowing sky now overhung? 
In dumb terror she could but sit waiting until 
The dread cloud-burst should come, and her sorrow-cup fill. 

vrn. 
He continued, while tender, and cadent, and low 
Were the tones of his voice; and the tremulous flow 
Of his now subdued speech -was in contrast most strange 
With the swelling, impassioned, and vehement range 
Of his talk when discussing with ardor the themes 
Of art, ethics, and life, and life's fancies and dreams: 

IX. 

" Helen Graves, the short year I have known you has been, 

In the waste of my life here, an oasis green. 

It has been a large comfort with you to connuune; 

It has seemed, when with you, that my heart was in tune 

With the world. And the flattering spirits that wait 

On the goddess of Hope have still kept me elate 

With the thought of what might be if dreams were not dreams, — 

With illusory visions they weave of the beams 

Ever from their divinity's glance flowing forth. 

To enchant and delude the weak children of earth. 

. . But these sirens no longer my soul with their strains 
Must retain in their witchery's dangerous chains." 

X. 

Helen Graves's large eyes larger still seemed to grow, 
And in wonderment o'er his whole being to throw 
Inexpressibly delicate, charmed radiance, 

As she turned full n\ion him her sweet, gentle glance. 



RENUNCIATION. 



79 



And, Mark Landis, I trow that few men ever won, 
Ere the book of a woman's heart open was thrown, 
And ere love had the right of declarement, a gaze 
Such as that which met yours in the soft autumn haze, — 
A long look which embodied inquiry, surprise, 
Sadness, longing, and doubt, and veiled faintly the eyes 
With a mist which might melt into tear-drops, and prove. 
With too strong demonstration, the presence of love, — 
Yet did not: for she rallied, and mistress, once more. 
Of herself, self-asserting, was calm as before. 

XI. 

He had paused, as in doubt. And, as Helen well knew 
. He ne'er halted for words, which sprang ever and flew 
At his beck, she thought strange that this king of discourse 
Should lack language to give his thoughts freedom and force. 
Durst she deem the embarrassment caused by the rush 
Of love's tidal flood into his heart? A red flush 
From hot hope at this trust-signal mantled her brow; 
But it quickly retreated. 

XII. 

' ' No ! were love aglow 
In his breast," brooded she, " he had met me half-way. 
When from due reserve went my eyes just now astray. 
He would then have made captive my fluttering heart; 
For 'twere his for the asking. 'Tis plain I've no part 
And no lot in his love .... In Ins love ? Can he love 
With a love that enduring, sustaining, would prove ? 

Ah, yes; he his ideal cowXdi love, could he find 
Upon earth some epitome in womankind. 
Bearing all of the graces and virtues; but me — 
No, he ne'er can love me: that dream never can be." 



80 HELKN. 

And a sigh escaped from her, which vainly she tried 
To repress. 

XIII. 

From the truth, in this world, oft how wide 
Do the best of us get! Listen, Helen, and learn 
What e'en your keen perception has failed to discern. 

XIV. 

Landis now thus resumed: 

" For these many long days, 
Helen Graves, in delight I have wandered your ways. 
At the first, it was only the prankest of girls 
That I saw, with great eyes, and a wealth of loose curls, 
And a naive, ingenuous air, which called forth 
My alert sense of gallantry, ere of her worth 
I knew aught; and she failed not to interest me 
From the start, as a fresh, piquant, keen novelty. 
But I looked 'neath the surface, and saw a mind filled 
With original thought, and a heart that was thrilled 
With emotions the deepest, and gentlest, and best; 
And a soul, noble, lofty, and true, w^hose behest 
Mind and heart ever duly obeyed; and there stood 
Typed before me, not girlhood, but strong womanhood. 
Then it flattered 'ny pride that this woman gave ear 
To the visions and fancy ings I had held dear; 
And the embryo cynic had gathered, at length, 
FVom the girl under tutelage, vast spirit-strength." 

XV. 

The great bays now walked slowdy; the birds' songs were low, 
And, save them, the grove's silence seemed deeper to grow\ 
On his words .she was hanging with bating of breath — 
With intentness as fixed as the shadow of death. 



KKXrXCIATION. 81 

XVI. 

" I then found that the teacher had changed to the taught; 
And that in me my ])upil instruction had wrought 
In a branch of Hfe's learning wherein I was proved 
To be greatly deficient. Taught thus, I have loved." 

XVII. 

Slower still were the steps o-f the bays. Not the trace 
Of a breeze moved the air; and the birds for a space 
Almost paused in their songs; while the boughs, interlaced, 
Of the maples and sumacs a deeper shade cast. 

XVIII. 

"Yes, I've loved. I have erred. To myself I have done, 
And to you, Helen Graves, [his gloved hand hers upon 
Laying tenderly then,] grievous wrong. 

' ' I have sought 
Your acquaintance, and from its sweet web have I wrought 
An attachment unpardonable. 

" I came West, 
For my o'erwearied, swift-beating pul.se to seek rest. 
Or get read}- to die; with a flickering chance 
That the climate my health and my strength might enhance. 
I am still on the shadowy side of the test. 
And an unstead}' heart palpitates in my breast. 
As I am, I'xe with love no concern, and no right 
To ])alni off this l)urnt taper of life as a blight 
Upon your fresh existence. One's self 'twere to lend 
To the basest of uses. 

XIX. 

" And this, m\- dear friend. 
Is what I for some time have been waiting to say- 
To your kindly and reason-bent ear; and to-day 
Came the courage to me, mj- clear duty to do, 
And the right, and the just, between C^od, me, and you." 



83 HELEN. 

XX. 

Then he ceased. 

The bays finally came to a halt 
In a spot, in the heart of the grove, where a vault 
Of the maples, and sumacs, and oaks, had been made; 
And the thorn-apple trees, and wild grapes; and the shade 
In the arbor which nature had formed was so dense. 
And the silence that reigned so profound, that a sense 
Of solemnity seemed the retreat to pervade. 
And to sanctify this close, sequestered, rare glade, 
While a feeling the tenant's whole being possessed. 
As if waiting the presence of some angel-guest. 

XXI. 

His gloved hand was still resting on hers. He had talked 
Hitherto with his eyes on his steeds as they walked, 
As if counting their steps. 

Now he turned in his seat, 
And upon her face fell his full glance, there to meet 
One that beamed in all gentleness, kindness, and — no, 
Not in love — love that forth goes as carrier-doves go. 
With an unrestrained sweep of their pinions as light 
And as free as the air through whose realms they take flight; 
For love's spirit had back from the windows withdrawn 
Where its features a moment before had been showm ; 
And her look neither gleam of love-light nor one ray 
Of her heart's wild impatience emitted. There lay 
In the depths of her liquid, majestic, dark eyes 
Such a calm as in ocean's abysmal deeps lies. 

Then she said: 

" You have told me, Mark Landis, ^-our tale. 
'Tis as sad as the wailing of autumn's last gale. 







3 '£ 



CO '^ ^ 

1! i 






REXUNCIATION. 85 

. You have loved; you have sacrificed: out of your lieart 
You ha\-e torn what had formed of existence a part. 
This, the first and the only love you have e'er knov/n, 
From your casemated breast you've determinedly thrown, 
At the bidding- of dut\-. 'Tis brave: 'tis heroic: 
'Tis worthy the soul of some classical stoic. 

XXIII. 

" I have this but to say, in response to what you 

From your heart's secret chambers have brought forth to view: 

That the kindness you've shown to the girl whom you met 

In your path and befriended, she'll never forget. 

It was yours, had you chosen, to humor her ways. 

And to flatter her vanity through fulsome praise. 

Yet you followed not after the way of the world: 

And you told her her faults, not in censurings hurled, 

Like sharp javelins, but to her reason appealing. 

The things that 'twere better to strive for revealing. 

And as you discerned, then, the out-reaching soul 

Of the woman unfolding, you show^ed her the goal 

Of tru^ w^omanhood, and its reward. You would chide, 

At times, when the mild chidings w^ere w^ounding to pride; 

But when chiding was past, 3-ou took her b\' the hand, 

And showed where lies in sunshine Taste's beautiful laud. 

XXIV. 

"And you held up for her the lamp Art keepeth bright, 
To illume in earth's shadows things born in the light, 
While she saw where the pathways of life might be made 
All to blossom, if soul-true along them she strayed. 
Then you told of a union of worship and art. 
Which for her oped new^ vistas to soul and to heart, 
And to life gave new purpose, a new garb to earth, 
A new meaning to dut}', to hope a new l)irth. 



86 HELEN. 

XXV. 

' Though you may not have known that the person whose path 

You thus strewed with blooms fairest earth's floral store hath, 

Was with gratitude filled toward one who had given 

To her strivings aims after which great souls have striven, — 

Who with thoughtfulness rare had discerned the true need 

Of a spirit deprived of its mentor, and freed 

From restraint when most requisite, and who had made 

Of her life something more than a light masquerade, — 

'Tis a pleasure to tell you that such is the case. 

From the tablet of memory naught can efface 

Any word you have uttered since we two first met. 

IV/mf the heart treasures most, the mind ea7iiiot forget.'^ 

XX\T[. 

Here she paused. 

Had she uttered too much ? Thus she asked 
Of herself. Was it wrong that her spirit still basked 
In the sunlight his presence diffused ? 

XXVII. 

O, tell me. 
Who shall set the true bounds of the heart's modesty ? 
Who shall mark where expression must yield to reserve ? 
Who shall point where emotion should lead, and where serve ? 
Who shall tell when heart-treasures, long hidden away. 
May be brought forth and shown in the broad light of day ? 
Who shall say when the tones of the tenderer cords 
Of the harp of the heart may be swelled into words. 
Through which Avaiting affection's long-muffled refrains 
May break forth into music's soul-comforting strains? 

. Who these queries with full satisfaction shall solve, 
May the fair Helen Graves's equation resolve. 



RICNl'XCIATIOX. 87 

XXVIII. 

But siifficit, that what from the heart she had said, 

Had stirred up to rebellion the realm of the head. 

Swift thought swept through her brain. Prudence, taking 

alarm, 
Sharp analysis made, and found boding but harm 
The advance she had ventured. Propriet}- weighed 
And found wanting the utterance warm she had made. 

XXIX. 

" He asks not whether /have loved him, or have not! 

Does he know ? Does he care, the least tittle or jot ? 

Before casting me from him, wh}' does he not show 

He has had at least some sort of claim to me ? . . . Xo! 

That I ne'er should have said! Let him ask if I love — 

Not so coolly assume it! I may make you prove 

Your position, proud autocrat! ... O, that he'd give 

To my starved heart a chance to tell him that I live 

But to love him! — that death, should it come, would but 

crown 
The affection eternal that laughs at death's frown! 
Having thus spoken once with his soul, face to face, 
I could bear aught of trouble, grief, pain, or disgrace; 
I could sacrifice, yield, bend, renounce, or deny; 
I could wait upon hope; I could live; I could die; 
Whatsoever should be his thought, quest, or behest, 
Be it life, death, or death-in-life, that were the best, — 
'Twere to me all in all: that, indeed, were earth's end — 
Unto death with him, husband, or lover, or friend! " 

XXX. 

Then .she turned to Mark Landis, who silent had sat. 
Waiting still on her words, which were glad music yet 



88 IIKl.KN. 

To his heart; looked as searchingly into his eyes 
As she durst for some sign that to her might suffice 
To lift gently the latch of the door of his heart, 
Therein enter, and be of its rich life a part: 
But looked \-ainl>-. 

And now the revolt in her breast 
Gained in strength: and she said, in her rebel unrest, 
What were better said never — so prone are we all. 
On occasion, to say what voice ne'er can recall, 
And what years of regret, howe'er deeply they groove, 
From the records where registered cannot remove! 

XXXI. 

"Then, Mark Landis, you thought what my gratitude meant 
You had read, and read rightly, as dawned no dissent; 
And you learned how to pity me; though you learned not 
The deep lesson through all love's experience taught, 
That contemned most b}- women within the heart's realm 
Is the pity bestowed when assumed sorrows whelm. 
For 3'ou doubtless presumed that the woman you taught 
In life's wisdom, and lead to new regions of thought 
In an atmosphere earth's common life far above. 
Had with you in the web of so fatal a love 
Been entangled, while on the charmed plant she had fed 
Whose beguiling, sweet essence her heart had thus led 
Into languor; and so you served merciful notice 
Upon her, no longer to eat of this lotus." 

XXXII. 

"And surely," he pleaded, " what was it but kind. 
To give warning thus ? ' " 

XXXIII. 

" Nothing. I've no fault to find 
With your thoughtful compassion; but mereh' suggest, 
That, in case, though susceptible, she to her breast 



Ki;xrxciATioN. 89 

Such a phantom had never yet clasped, as a love 
Of the nature of this one most surel}- must prove, — 
In case she of the lotus-plant had not partaken, — 
Occasion there zcere 7ione her heart to awaken 
To any particular danger that lies 
In her path:' 

XXXIV. 

She was through. She did not rest her eyes 
Then upon him, in angry, or scornful, or grieved 
Earnestness, as from sense of injustice received; 
But she turned them away, with a feeling of guilt; 
And her words had not died before she would have knelt 
Unto him, and with face in the dust pardon craved. 
Had he only in sweet ruth the way for her paved. 

XXXV. 

The blow, well aimed, with force most effective came down, 
Mark received it in silence. No murmur was drawn 
From his lips, as the barbed arrow into his heart 
Pierced, and wrought there its own keenly exquisite smart. 

X.XXVI. 

At the stake when the martyr the fagot awaits, 
To his spirit unbent through the Beautiful Gates 
Glimpses come of a crown for him there held in store, 
Grafting glory to come on the pain of the hour. 
To the patriot djnng for country comes death 
Robbed of half of its terrors, if, yielding his breath, 
He can see the bright banner in victory wave 
Which his blood is poured out to defend or to .save. 

XXXVII. 

Helen, know, a grace martyrdom hath of its own: 
Robbing it of this grace, you humiliate one 



90 HELEN. 

Who his spirit joy's beggarly remnant denies, 

And presents his true heart for the dread sacrifice. 

'Tis the savage alone who indignity heaps 

On the captive for torture's refinement he keeps. 

Befits vengeance no heart unto womanhood leal, 

Nor accords it with aught learned from Madame Marsile. 

XXXVIII. 

But Mark saw on her part no such vengeful intent, 
And addressed to himself this severe argument: 
" With love blind, I was fain to dispel the fond charm 
Of the dream that I deemed to her heart boded harm; 
But I find that myself am the dreamer deceived, — 
That alone of fond fancies a web I have weaved, 
Which enmeshes but my credent heart, leaving hers 
All as free as the breeze that these autumn leaves stirs. ' 
What have I to complain of ? The end I had sought 
Is attained. The affair I have honestly brought 
To an issue, and she, as I hoped for, therefrom 
With her heart unimpaired by love's struggle has come." 

XXXIX. 

Yet this argument stilled not his heart. 

Reader mine, 
Hearts love-stricken how many in count, dost opine. 
In the sweep of the years since earth's primeval spring. 
Have been soothed by assuagement that logic could bring ? 
Count the mortals w^ho've looked upon Deity's face ; 
Count the prophets who fleckless have blossomed in grace ; 
Count the eras when peace hath prevailed throughout earth 
Count the famed who are held at exactly their worth : 
Of the aggregate then a fair average take, 
And approach to the sought- for result thou may'st make. 



CANTO EIGHTH. 



FKIEXDSHIP 



I. 

" Now for home, my bright beauties! " at length Landis said. 

"Come, my pets! my Boy Charley! my Gentleman Ned! 

Do you see, lads ? The sun is far down in the sky, 

And you'd grumble should I let your suppers go b}- ; 

For the stomach of beast must be ever supplied. 

Like the craving heart human, let what may betide. 

Ivike as not you are wondering, my bonny pair. 

Why we're halting so long in this resting-place rare : 

And, indeed, it were difficult giving a reason, 

Except 'tis to taste the last joys of the season. 

For, my chums, it is very few drives more we'll take. 

Ere the gladdening sunshine these groves will forsake ; 

And the chill, cutting blasts, sweeping fields bleak and drear, 

And cold, comfortless rains, and harsh frosts, will be here ; 

And, like friendship untreasured, or love unrequited, 

By winter's iced breath autumn's heart will be blighted." 

II. 
Helen marked, when he called his steeds each by its name. 
What a cognizant look to their glowing eyes came: 
How their ears were thrown back, as his language they heard. 
Spoken to them, not at them. He uttered each word 
So distinctly, so low, in so gentle a tone, 
That as well his bav's hearts as their ears were his own. 



92 HKI.KX. 

And, when stopping to water them, crossing- a stream 
That, hke music's strains heard in a half-waking- dream, 
Issued, purling-, from out of the heart of the g-rove, 
While re-checking- them, plainly he told them their Une 
(Than a woman's love, thought he then, far less complex) 
Was returned; for he patted their heads and their necks, 
The while murmuring tenderly into their ears 
Words nor woman nor beast e'er reluctantly hears. 

III. 
"Ah! " sighed Helen, as, watching the.se movements of his, 
In the carriage she sat amidst sad reveries; 
" Would he but mj'self treat as he does a dumb beast, 
My heart hungered would sit at a roj'al love-feast." 
She grew jealous of this prancing team of Mark's pride, 
And for her to green seemed the bay steeds to be dyed. 

IV. 

'Twas l)Ut little the\- said on the homeward return. 

The horizon with sunset fire ceasing to burn. 
The thin mantle of twilight was o'er the earth thrown, 
While as yet night refrained from reclaiming her own. 
Soon the grove's deepened shadows were left far behind. 
And across the broad prairie, with speed of the wind, 
And along the smooth, turf-lined, and dew-dampened road, 
Si)ed the great Landis bays, with their marvelous load, — 
Willi their lading of beauty and truth interwreathed; 
Willi their lading of love that was breathed and unbreathed; 
With their lading of memories richer than gold; 
With their lading of soul-deep emotions untold; 
With their lading of pangs, disappointments, and fears; 
With their lading of wrecks of crushed dreams of the years; 
With their lading of words that brought pain in their course; 
With Iheir lading of sorrow, regret, and remorse; 



FRIKXDSHIP. 93 

With tlifir lading- of longings dispelled with a breath; 
W'itli their lading of hopes lost in shadows of death. 

V. 
Speed on swiftly, Boy Charley! Speed; Gentleman Ned! 
For a freight such as this 5-011 have never yet had, 
And may ne'er have again! In the vehicle whirled 
O'er the glad, green expanse nature here has unfurled, 
Bearing, mingled together, yet strangely apart, 
Thought of brain, hope of soul, and emotion of heart, 
Grievings, cloud-drifts of trouble, and burdens of care. 
Hearts unbalmed, wrongs unrighted, and shapes of despair, 
A true symbol forth -shadowed there seemeth to be 
Of life's barque sailing over time's far-sweeping sea. 

VI. 
Helen Graves! There is time for you yet to retract! 
Words of yours have brought wounding! They will retroact! 
And, as sure as God lives, ere the 3'ears roll awa}-. 
Soon or late, with the very same wound which this day 
You have dealt to Mark Landis your own breast shall bleed. 
In the hush of this softening twilight take heed! 
Is it well to slay love in the house of its friends ? 
Over love's bleeding form is the place for amends! 
Let your heart plead for kindness and grace. L,ook ahead: 
Count the years that may flow o'er the face of its dead 
Ere .so wealthy a spirit again yours shall greet, 
Ere so gentle a Mentor your footsteps .shall meet. 

VII. 

Yet once more, Helen Graves! Let fair honesty plead! 
You have been indirect — spoken words to mislead; 
Have been false to yourself, and false witness have borne 
Of your heart to Mark Landis. In justice now turn, 



94 HELEN. 

And do right to yourself, and to him! If you part 

In the shadows, O, let them l)e such as the heart 

Can enshrine in its crypts, with dead years that were blest, 

And not such as will haunt you like ghosts of unrest! 

To 3-our soul let the precepts of wisdom appeal 

Which came e'er from the lips of dear Madame Marsile. 

Helen! Though in your seasons of scorn you may 
try 
Still to feed your poor famishing heart with a lie. 
You will never succeed — stones will not do for bread; ■ 
And some morn you may waken and find it is dead! 

VIII. 

. Will she yield? . . . Ah! Still deepens the 

twilight, and star 
After star peeps through gates of the heavens ajar; 
And she still remains silent, or merely responds 
To the causual questionings Landis propounds, 
To kill time. 

Yes, yes; such was the object of both; 
And thus each to speak words that were earnest was loth. 

. To kill time! — They in spirit were putting to death 
Something greater than time, something dearer than breath! 
For the love that is true love laughs year-count to scorn; 
And the love that is pure love is not mortal born: 
'Tis no more to be tried by the time-tests of earth. 
Than it is to be gauged by man's standard of worth. 

IX. 

Speed, speed on, Charley Boy! Speed on. Gentleman Ned! 
The faint hope of a heart-reconcilement seems fled! 
Make all haste, lads, their homes and your stable to reach; 
For the sooner their farce ends, the better for each! 



FRIENDSHIP. 95 

X. 

Now, the charmed, tender hour of the twihght is gone; 

All the stars have appeared, with their diadems on; 

And in silver the moon is all robed for her march 

Through the planet-gemmed, world-lighted triumphal arch. 

'Tis a night full of beaut5^ and glor}-, and truth; 

Such a night as makes age feel immortal in youth; 

Such a night, perad venture, as smiled on the earth 

When the shepherds were told of the Promised One's birth. 

But it should have been dark as old Egypt's dense night: 

Not a star should have proffered its genial light 

To guide over the breakers these self-sundered souls, 

Making wreck thus upon misconstruction's rough shoals. 

For 'twere better in silence and darkness to be, 

Than to let the pure starlight such sacrilege see. 

XI. 

The long drive nears an end, as all earth-jaunts must do; 

And the lights of the Graves farm are coming in view. 

. . . Slacken speed, handsome bays! For a recognized 

thrill 
Of the reins tells you such is your young master's will. 
Yet still slower, lads! There, that will do — a slow walk. 
You must see he has clearly, beside the dull talk 
Which has been dragging on, something earnest to say; 
And your hankered-for suppers you'll have to delay. 

XII. 

. . . Landis said, as he turned toward Helen a look 
Which of utterest heart-desolation partook: 
"Have you been, like myself, in this silence-charmed hour, 
With its beauty impressed, its sublimely weird power ? 
Have you felt that God comes at such hours near to earth. 
And his benison gives to all mortal of birth ?" 



9C HKLKN. 

XIII. 

" Yes," she answered, with thrill of hope-waking surprise; 

" I have drunk of the draught; " and her soul filled her eyes. 

■' It is glorious! While o'er the prairie we've flown, 

Such a joy in the sight as I never had known 

I have had, though I oft feast with raptured delight 

On the scene. Greater beauty, I think, has the night, 

Than the kingliest day." 

XIV. 

"If not so," he replied, 
" It is holier. And in this cahn eventide. 
With the hallowing trace of God's kiss on its brow, 
Helen Graves, let me ask for your friendship — not now, 
Simply, but I shall need it in j-ears that pass o'er — 
And it may be but months ere I need it no more! 
Be it months, be it years, that are yet mine to be, 
'Twill be little for you; 'twill he vast wealth for me. 

XV. 

"An assured larger life may soon open for you, 
And your broadened horizon diminish the view 
Of the scenes which have been to my vision so fair, 
And have caused life to me a new aspect to wear. 
'Tis across the new years that my hand I now reach, 
And implore in your hall of rememljrance a niche. 
My life here will in lines that are narrow l)e cast: 
There will be naught to sunder the present and past 
In my heart, except death." — 

Helen shrank, then, as thougli 
A chill wind, with the grave-damp bedewed, had swept through 
Between his soul and hers. — 

" Your existence will be 
With diversified interests filled; and of me 



FRIENDSHIP. 9? 

If you think, it will be an exceptional task 

Of the mind; that exception is all that I ask. 

'Twill no strain be for me to remember: indeed, 

To forget were work sorest for heart as for head. 

I recall your own words, whose refrain lingers j^et: 

' \lliat tJic heart treasures most, the mind ea)inot forget.' " 

XVI. 

The deep blush which then mantled her cheeks and her brow» 

By the kindly connivance the fates oft allow 

Of the moonlight and starlight, was hid from his view: 

And he only observed that the light brighter grew 

In her dark, glowing eyes, which upon him she turned, 

With a look in which no heart-resentment yet burned. 

As she said, in deep tenderness, kindness, and ruth. 

And a tone that rang full of her old- wonted truth: 

XVII. 

" You shall never, Mark I^andis, knock twice at my breast 

For a boon, if it be such, that's yours without quest. 

You have asked for my friendship in years 3'et to come: 

It is yours in all years, until language be dumb. 

Until memory fade, until heart-throbs be stilled. 

With j'f?^r friendship a void in my life you have filled, 

And my own lies for you to retain at your will; 

While its life naught can threaten, its heart naught can chill. 

There is nothing Mark Landis can do to life's end, 

That aught else can of Helen Graves make than his friend." 

XVIII. 

O, Mark, how could you fail to di.scern in tnese tones. 
Each one vibrating only with feelings love owns. 
The last struggle her heart for assertion was making — 
Its last earnest effort put forth at awaking 



98 HKLEN. 

Love's sharp inquisition and search on j-our part — 

Her despairing attempt to creep into your heart ? 

At that moment supreme, had you stood at death's door, 

With but one day to Hve ere the struggle be o'er. 

And in challenging love then demanded of her, 

For the faint shred of life that were yours to transfer, 

Her great heart, with its volume of health, youth, and bloom. 

It had gladly and proudly been yours to the tomb. 

XIX. 

Farmer Graves's great barn is now looming in sight. 
And his poplars and maples; while grandly the light 
From the roomy and old-fashioned fireplaces glows 
Through each window unscreened, and its rudd}- light throws 
On the beautiful bays, with their precious life-load. 
Coming on a proud trot, turning in from the road, 
And then up to the farm-house. 

XX. 

What contrast is there, 
In the scene now confronting this dream-wakened pair. 
With the deep heart-experiences of the drive! 
No life here but is active, — each creature alive 
And alert. From the regions of pure sentiment 
To the strata of fact, quick has been the descent! 

XXI. 

O, the life of a farm at day's close! Then and there 
One will find of this world an epitome fair. 
See the hard-working beasts, that come up for their pay. 
And receive it in silence, eat, drink, and away, 
Like good, orderly workmen. The idle ones howl, 
And, like all idlers human, grunt, grumble and growl, 
More by far than tho.se who, in pain, struggle, and sweat, 
Honest, fairl.y-earned titles to maintenance get. 



FRIENDSHIP. 99 

And the daint}-, select ones, the favored of pride, 
These demand closer care than all others beside; 
For they, favorite-like, must be petted, caressed. 
And of all things provided they must have the best. 
And the bullies and tyrants come in for their shares, 
Which the}' take with the rest, and then plunder in pairs, 
Coward-like, and combine to grab, ravage, and rob. 
And resort to that civilized trick, the swell-mob. 
The unwary to plunder, and leave them to starve, 
While their own greedy, gluttonous bellies they serve. 

. Bless me! This is so like the vast human charade, 
As we see it all round us in varied guise played. 
That it comes of earth's problems to be not the least, 
Whether beast after man takes, or man after beast. 

XXII. 

When Mark Landis, while round him the white moonbeams- 
played, 
To the ground Helen lightly had lifted, he said, 
As her hand he released: 

" Well, good night, and good bj-e! " 

XXIII. 

" Why good-bye ? " Helen asked, with quick glance of the 

eye, 
While a shudder her heart, wrought to tension, ran through: 
" On a journew then, are you intending to go ? " 

XXIV. 

" Not at all," he returned. "This is but m}- last greeting 
To a dream I have had, and have learned to be fleeting. 
I found it so fair, and so bright was its spell, 
That I pay it its due of a passing farewell, 
As its hues iridescent now fade from my sight, 
And its joys disappear in oblivion's night." 



100 HKLEN. 

XXV. 

" Helen Graves but good night has to say," she replied, 
As he sprang to his seat, while straight supperwards hied. 
With the same speed at which o'er the prairie they sped. 
The ga}", bright Charley Boy, and spruce Gentleman Ned. 

XXVI. 

On the steps of her home still poor Helen remained. 
With her eyes after horses and driver long strained; 
And when trace there was none of Mark's form to be seen, 
She gazed up at the heavens, whose beauty serene 
Now was heightened; and still as a statue she stood. 
While the moonlight in silver waves over her flowed, 
As, exiled on a lone, desert isle, one might stand. 
And watch sail the last ship for his loved native land. 

. She yet gazed at the stars. " Tell, O, tell me," she 

sighed; 
" May not love without end in your clear depths abide ? 
For enduring abiding-place none hath it here! " 
And upon her white hand there fell softly a tear. 

xxvii. 
She retired to her chamber, and sought the relief 
That no woman fails ever to seek. 

But a grief 
Such as this which now shrouded the fair Helen Graves, 
Departs not with much weeping; for after the waves 
Had rolled surgingly over her heart in their might, 
Came a calm with more dread than the storm in its height. 



CANTO NINTH. 



DEVOTIOX. 



I. 

Richard Rolfe, gentle reader: who enters as one 

Of my characters truest. And, ere I go on 

With my tale, let me linger awhile o'er this man, 

Who in no wise on any original plan 

Had been formed, as I frankly admit at the start. 

He was no unique soul, living grandly apart 

From the crowd, but one such as you're likely to meet 

Fifty times in the da}', along any thronged street 

Where our countrymen mingle. I purpose in him 

But a type of American nature to limn, 

Which, though common as love, is, like love, genuine, 

And of which any counterfeit rarely is seen. 

II. 
Richard Rolfe was a man of to-day. Of the things 
That to memory's treasur}^ yesterday brings 
He cared little, and less for the glamour hope throws 
O'er things which in the lap of to-morrow repose. 
The great past was to him something distant and dead. 
Over which he passed ever with reverent tread, 
But wlio.se spirit with his no communion could hold. 
Savor bearing too strong of mortality's mold. 
Of the lessons that history's record unfolds. 
Or the mirror of promise that prophecy holds, 



102 in:LKN. 

His soul being oblivious, chose to adhere 

To its plenary faith in the now, and the here. 

With the thoughts of this flush life his active mind teemed; 

And, in waking or sleeping, he never had dreamed 

Of a world any better than this where he lived, 

Loved, hoped, labored, or strove, and in which he l)elieved, 

With its every error, injustice, and wrong. 

With a faith as unquestioning, fervent, and strong, 

As that placed by a tender young child in its mother. 

III. 
— Of course, this refers but to time. 

In another. 
And happier world, far beyond the dark gulf 
Which he knew that some day he must cross, Richard Rolfe 
Did most surely believe, as his fathers had done — 
With such modifications of faith, be it known. 
As the spirit of this age had wrought; for to him 
'Twas decidedly proper to vary and trim 
His theology, as ballad-singers their rhymes. 
To comply with the changing demands of the times: 
That to him was the truth, with regard to eternity, 
Which had most respectable modern paternity. 

IV. 
Yet a nature was Rolfe' s of .so sound mental health, 
Of such heart-freshness, and so much physical wealth, 
That this superabundance of life, strength, and nerve, 
And his vast fund of energy held in reserve. 
Gave him influence, power, and control among men, 
Such as few at his age can command; for he then 
Had not thirty years reached; and 'twas worthy of note, 
That e'en thus long he'd been on life's high tide afloat, 



DEVOTION. 103 

And unpromised as well as unwedded was still; 
For of him one would say, he could conquer at will 
Any heart to lay siege to which he might desire. 
He had all of the traits woman's love that inspire: 
He had courage, assurance, persistence, and force; 
He had strong self-assertion; a plethoric purse; 
A commanding, tall person; an eye passion-fired; 
And most soft, winning ways, when occasion required. 

V. 

Richard Rolfe had long known Helen Graves. From a child 

He had watched her, as, heedless, and curbless, and wild, 

She had roamed o'er the prairies in May or in June, 

Picking strawberries where they were lavishly strewn 

By God's own kindly hand in dim cycles of time, 

And by countless suns sweetened for man in his prime; 

Or through groves in mid-August, where blackberries grew 

Thickly, darkly, as plagues that doomed Egypt once knew; 

Or the round, toothsome hazelnut tempted her on. 

Until lost in the thickets of purple and brown. 

He had missed her when absent at school, and had thought 

That an object, some day, she would be to be sought; 

But. with that easy confidence in his own power 

With which fate the courageous doth ever endower, 

Waited till she should ripen to w^oman's estate. 

When he deemed it quite likely he might link her fate 

With his own. 

VI. 
. . . On the night when Mark Landis returned 
From the long drive with Helen, and with him, inurned. 
Brought the ashes of trust that with reverent care 
He had after the sacrifice gathered, to bear 



104 HELEN. 

Through the seasons and years, Farmer Graves at his gate 
Stood, discussing with Rolfe themes of soil and of state, 
As the spanking bays pranced at brisk pace proudl}- in. 
And their master the treasure laid down, which to win 
He, Dick Rolfe, had deemed but a light task. 

"A smart span 
Landis drives! " In this wise the old man's comments ran. 
As the bays trotted homeward. "As sure as my name 
Is John Graves, since that thar right clean-brained Yankee 

came 
To these parts, I have never seen him hold the reins 
On a roadster that hadn't good blood in its veins." 

VII. 

There's a cheapness of feeling comparison brings. 

Which humiliates even the spirit of kings. 

Proud Dick Rolfe felt shrink up the lean roan he bestrode 

To still lanker proportions, as homeward he rode. 

At a whip-enforced gait. But the beast, if possessed 

Of the gift given Balaam's, a voice to protest, 

JSIight have told him how grossly unworthy it was 

To torment a poor brute in green jealousy's cause. 

. . . The truth was that Dick had on a sudden awaked 

To a keen apprehension of this striking fact: 

That a beauty like sweet Helen Graves could not range 

Long at random in this Western world's pasture-grange. 

Without danger of being caught up and " coralled " ; 

And, aroused thus, his haughty, impatient breast swelled 

With inflamed indignation that e'er Hving wight 

Of a herdsman should venture to challenge his right 

To the pride of these grazing-lands ; while, in his wrath, 

Had he met the intruder that night in his path, 

Klsewise might have been told my tale. 



DEVOTION. 105 

VIII. 

As he had cast 
A look searching at Helen, when b}- him she passed 
On that last night for her by Mark Landis's side, 
She, with features by thought-trials fresh purified, 
And full bathed in the moonlight, to him .seemed more fair 
Than in all seasons since the}- had breathed the same air. 
Thus, as grew on his vision this late-discerned charm, 
New emotions gained power his strong nature to warm. 
And he stood there, stirred deeply. 

IX. 

And then he began 
To feel strange and soft pulsings of heart, while there ran 
Through his being a stream of new joy, and new life; 
And he knew that he loved. 

There sprang now a fresh strife 
In his breast — love, hard struggling for instant control. 
Crying, with first love's fierce cry: "Give all, heart and 

soul; 
Give me all, or give none! " 

X. 

Richard Rolfe was no man 
Long to hesitate after once forming a plan; 
But prompt action so quickh- succeeded resolve, 
That small time had he thoughts in his mind to revolve. 
Therefore, when he reached home, he had fixedly planned 
To win fair Helen Graves as his bride, out of hand. 

XI. 

. . . Thus the stars on that night o'er the prairies looked 

down 
On three hearts with love's strong tidal wave overflown; 



106 HELEN. 

And the stars then, as ever, their secrets close kept, 

And their courses still held, whether love laughed or wept, 

Or love suffered or joyed, or love triumphed or fell. 

But one tale, O cold worlds, have ye ever to tell! 

Ye can tell that love times, days, and seasons hath not; 

Ye can tell that to bleed and be bruised is its lot; 

Ye can tell that forever love's tide ebbs and flows; 

Ye can tell that young ever, old never, love grows. 

This enduring tale love in your depths aye can read; 

But not that which to know it e'er thinketh to need: 

It can never read there what its travail shall bear. 

It can never read there what its spirit shall share; 

It can never read there of one pulse of a heart 

That it treasures in silence and worships apart; 

It can never from thence one assured omen wring 

Of the bloom or the blight which the morrow shall bring. 

XII. 

Now prepare, Helen Graves, for a siege to your heart! 

He who lays it, though meeting repulse at the start. 

Will bring all of love's forces to bear on your breast. 

And its dread engines will into service be pressed. 

O, beware, Helen Graves! Your heart's fortress make strong: 

For the siege will be weary, the siege will be long! 

Reinforce all your bastions, make sure each redoubt. 

If you hope against siege like this still to hold out ! 

>!= ^; ^ 

XIII. 
" Hello, Dick ! " Farmer Graves in his frank way exclaimed. 
Not a great many days after Richard had framed 
His strong purpose beneath aroused passion's fierce gleam, 
As the latter drove up with a fine chestnut team, 



DEVOTION. 107 

And invited the former to sit by his side, 

While together his new trotters' paces they tried. 

"I'm right glad, neighbor Rolfe, that you've put on the 

road 
Creatures such as these beauties. It does my heart good 
To ride after them ! 

"Thanks ! I don't mind if I do 
Try the lines. Ah ! These nags are a credit to you; 
And I reckon the}'' 11 give to young lyandis's bays 
A close rub. We must try the pa'r one of these days. 
It's some time since I've seen him. Some persons here say 
He's consumptive, with health mighty nigh giving way, 
From his over-exertion." 

XIV. 

" I hope, sir, his case 
Is by no means as bad as reported. His place 
Could be in our community poorly supplied," 
Answered Rolfe, in whose breast all resentment had died 
Toward Landis of late; for there had, through the mouth 
Of Dame Rumor, came word which first made Dick less 

wroth 
With his neighbor, and then a warm friend of him made. 
The word went, that Mark, learning his rival had laid 
Claim to Helen's affection, concluded to yield. 
Like a sensible fellow, to Richard the field, 
More especially as Helen's heart was inclined 
To Dick, having thereon plainly spoken her mind. 
And the fact that Rolfe now was attentive to her. 
And that she seemed to give to her new worshiper 
All her favors, while Landis had totally ceased 
In his visits, the credit still greatly increased 



108 HELEN. 

Of the story ; and — would you believe it? — it stood 
Soon as good history in the whole neighborhood. 
But I vouch for the fact that, within my brief day. 
I've myself, in this very identical way, 
Seen made histories vast, which the world has believed, 
And with questionless faith all their data received. 

XV. 

And here taketh my muse a detoitr from the thread 

Of the tale, for the moment a by-path to tread, 

As the sons of men ever are turning aside 

From life-themes to contemplate things cast by the tide 

On the shore of the River of Time, as it runs 

Through the valleys of earth and through courses of suns. 

. . . Who of woman born breathes that is able the line 

With distinctness and adequacy to define 

Between flexile tradition and tense history, 

Through humanity's maze and fate's dim mystery? 

Task Promethean ! He who essays it may well 

Bid adieu to the hope in peace mental to dwell. 

Fellow-traveler through this vale tearful, I trow 

That both you and I groping in twilight will go, 

While the fancy delusive embracing that we 

Shall truth clarified e'er in earth's chronicles see. 

We are born in a shade ; shadows ever attend 

Our steps mundane ; the mists never fail to descend 

Upon us from the cradle e'en on to the tomb ; 

And the haze of futurity deepens death's gloom : 

But no mists round life's path more persistently crowd, 

Than those which the page storied incessantly shroud. 

The exact truth of history ever to gain, 

And to separate it from tradition, in vain 



DEVOTION. 109 

Need be looked for in this sphere, while human 
Man continues to be, and especially woman. 

XVI. 

There's a rule the world over observed by mankind 

On the subject in hand, which may thus be outlined: 

The traditions that buttress my faith, or my cause, 

Pass as history credent with 77iy side, while those 

Which sustain faith or cause propagated by you, 

Can for ?fie web nor woof make of history true. 

This rule governs the problem historic ; and, tried 

Vice versa, props equally yo^cr chosen side. 

We all work by it — poets, priests, worldlings, and sages, 

Whether on topics current, or those of the ages. 

'Tis the way of the world, brother; so hath it been 

Since ran rippling the streams and the grasses grew green ; 

And 'twill so be while gently at eve Hesper glows, 

Or sweet Luna o'er earth silver radiance throws. 

. . . Would you change it ? For things planned anew do you 

yearn ? 
Philanthropic day-dreamer ! As well seek to turn 
The blood's currents out of their arterial course 
To and from life's unceasingly pulsating source. 
Or to soften and smoothe the gnarled growth of the oak, 
Make the reed strong to bear the wild hurricane's stroke, 
Change in nature the lily by clasping airs swayed. 
Or the daisy that blushes demure in the shade. 



XVII. 
With his brave, blooded chestnuts the few final daj-s 
Of the fall Rolfe with Helen improved. And the haze 



110 HELEN, 

Which still lingered, as if tender thoughts to retain 
That in autumn days dreamy, in memory's train, 
Cluster round gentle hearts, she held dear as the glow 
Of the sunset to him who shall nevermore know 
The glad warmth of another sun's light. 

Though she drove. 
Rode, or walked with him whither he asked her, in grove. 
Or on prairie, o'er meadow, by pond, or by stream. 
While her mind was awake, yet her heart lived a dream. 
She was charming in converse; ranged ever thought-free; 
And especially comforting was it that he. 
Whom she knew to be anchored in spirit inside 
The safe harbor of life's living present, ne'er tried 
To invade the to her hallowed precincts that lay, 
Ah, behind her fore'er, and so far now away ! 
There was health for her spirit in topics he chose ; 
And, while naught of her heart was she forced to disclose, 
In reality's fields she drew him, 'neath her spell, 
Along paths where the sunshine in plethora fell, 
. . . But at times — ah, antithesis marvelous, found 
In the fairest of women within the bright bound 
Of green earth ! — she herself, moved by some impulse strange, 
Drew him off from the wonted, habitual range 
Of such earnest themes as, with no lack of fair phrase 
He embellished, to those of an alien phase. 
Was this only to show what o'er him was the power 
She possessed ? Be that still as it might, hour by hour 
Grew her vantage. She led him to talk of all things 
In the scope of the known ; yea, of mystical springs 
Of the unknown her captive enticed to converse, 
Still in all ever holding the helm of discourse. 



DEVOTION. Ill 

XVIII. 

She was fain to beguile his strong spirit away 

From the fresh terra firma of Now, and To-Day, 

To the fringed shores of Sometime, and Yesterday's isles, 

And the tropics where slumber To-morrow's bright smiles; 

And he listened enchanted, and, listening, loved, 

With a love that all heights and all depths in him moved. 

XIX. 

Yet, whene'er, with heart-eloquence glowing, he sought 
To direct the discourse into channels of thought 
Which flowed into the great stream of love, hy finesse 
She diverted its course to where danger was less; 
And thus kept herself on the assured safetj^ side; 
While, becharmed, and thus still floating on with the tide. 
This live non-dreamer, now dreaming only, swept on, 
And was lost to all else save her look, touch, and tone. 

XX. 

Ah, well, Helen I Just now you are having your wa}-. 

But this sleeper will wake from his slumbers some day; 

And that day you will not find relief in finesse; 

But the issue j-ou then will have boldly to face. 

And, pray, what will you do, Helen Graves, in that day? 

Will you float with the tide idly ebbing away. 

Or, on moveless rock standing, defy it^ 

Not long 
Can, you, Delilah, dally with Samson the strong ! 
For your temple's stout pillars he'll shatter at length, 
When again he shall rise, and shall feel his old strength. 

XXI. 

In your heart you have builded a mosque, and enshrined 
There the living-dead love of Mark Landis, refined, 



11'^ HELEN. 

Sublimated, removed from all contact with earth, 
Like the Mary of Grace, held as spotless of birth. 
You imagine that you can preserve, in that shrine. 
The once sacrificed love, now transfigured, divine, 
And in secret to it silent homage pay, while 
You encourage a grosser love springing, and smile, 
And thus say to yourself: " Such a love must but die. 
While immortal is mine." 

XXII. 

O, take heed how you ply 
This most dangerous logic! For I do make bold 
To declare that the love of this man taketh hold 
On the things and the thoughts that are noblest. 'Tis true, 
It is not, and it never can be, unto you. 
An affection like that of Mark Landis; for rare 
As appearance of spirits from realms of the air 
Is the advent on earth of so spotless a love 
As that one, seeming drawn from the great Heart above. 
Yet within Richard Rolfe's manly breast there glows now 
An affection a king might be proud to avow. 
Or a queen might thirst after. L,augh not at this love, 
Helen Graves, lest such laughter a Nemesis prove! 

^ ^ <C 

XXIII. 

And what thoughts filled the brain of Mark Landis the while? 
Murmured he: 

" 'Twere like seeking the source of the Nile, 
To attempt the heart-bent of a woman to trace. 
One will find, when he thinks he looks love in the face, 
'Tis the face of a sphinx . . . Ah, how oft, in the days 
That are dead, have I sat 'neath the lustreful gaze 



DEVOTION. 113 

Of those dark mirror-eyes, and believed that through mine 
The clear soul that looked through them had made me the sign 
Of the finding of home and of rest in my heart! 
And this all was but seeming — this all was but art I 

XXIV. 

"And where then shall one seek in this wide world for truth? 
Shall one seek it in age, when 'tis not found in youth ? 
Shall one seek it in man, when 'tis not found in woman ? 
Or seek it in brute breasts, when scarce found in human ? 
Come hither, my great bays, my pets, and my friends! 
I will trust 3-ou, and love you, till life's story ends, 
As end why should it not in the days that are near ? 
Your eyes gaze into mine, and no falsehood I fear. 
While they rest on my face, I can fancy they see 
An unselfish devotion clear-mirrored in me; 
And I'm proud of your flattery, beauties in bay, 
And in genuine coin your strong faith will repay." 

XXV. 

Thus the heart still rebelled against reason's behest, 
And gave way to all shapes of abnormal unrest. 
Vainly all self-conmiand Mark had called to his aid; 
" 'Tis unmanly! " in vain had his better sense said. 

XXVI. 

My good reader, philosophize much as we may. 

We'll find that, in the realm where the feelings hold sway, 

A cry selfish for heart-compensation ascends. 

E'en where sacrifice noble subserves lofty ends. 

To that cry recognition appeasement can bring — 

Recognition, though faint, of the heart's offering. 

'Tis the one touch of self which the martyr makes kin 

With the wretch who sells soul for the wages of sin. 



114 



HELEN. 



This touch failiiif^, how strangel}-, in clearest of luinds, 
Truth its crystal intent niisinter])reted finds! 
Recognition may work reconcilement where loss 
Leaves of life's wine but lees, of its gold but the dross, 
Though in time's farthest cycles it may never more 
Aught repair, or renew, or recall, or restore. 

XXVII. 

Had this one simple factor to Mark been supplied, 

With content had he borne, suffered, struggled, or died. 

But it came not, and he, with injustice of thought, 

Still his way blindh* groped through the myths lie had 

wrought. 
Let us judge him in charity, mindful that One 
Whom no myths mystified was once shut from the sun. 




CANTO TENTH. 



PASSION. 



I. 

Autumn days were no more. On bleak ^A4nds they had flown, 
With the joys that once bosoms now aching had known. 
But the stout Richard Rolfe with the autumn went not, 
And his way toward Helen's heart bravely still fought. 
Then the winter came on, with its sad, moaning blasts. 
And its whispers of death, and its tyrannous frosts. 
Holding nature's great heart in its dread icy chain, 
And thus holding iced hearts of both women and men. 
But frosts chilled not the heart that in Richard Rolfe' s breast 
Glowed with love's ever-heightening flames of unrest, 
'Neath the calm, watchful gaze of the cold, soulless stars, 
While rebelliously ever it beat 'gainst its bars. 
With increasingly louder throbs, hasting the day 
When love must have solution, the heart have its sway. 

II. 
That day came. 

Of her bareness ashamed, earth, one morn, 
Had determined her bosom to clothe and adorn 
With a grand robe of ermine. It grew with the day: 
And the great flakes came down, and successively lay 
On her lean, shriveled breast, and thus rounded it o'er. 
Till our dear, common mother was fair as of vore. 



110 HELEN. 

III. 
'Twas the first snow of winter! Infectious, the joy- 
Spread to woman and girl, and to man and to boy; 
And the beasts even caught the exhilarant flow 
Of fresh spirit that set all existence aglow. 
Then, hurrah! Cutters, sleighs, sleds, crates, jumpers, and 

pungs 
Into quick requisition were brought; then wagged tongues, 
And strove voices; bells jingled; and laughter rang out; 
And now he was best fellow wdio loudest could shout. 
Or who most noise could make, in the roar and the din 
That this merry and jolly snow-storm ushered in. 

IV. 

Out, now, come the renowned graj'S of old P'armer Graves, 
And the sleigh that for great state occasions he saves; 
And out, too, come Mark Landis's steeds, wnth steps light. 
With steps sure, wnth steps swift, o'er earth's carpet of white. 
But no burden of mingled emotions the bays 
Draw as erstwhile accustomed when long were the days. 
And see! Now, with a flourish, Rolfe's chestnuts whirl 

through 
Farmer Graves's wide gate, 'mid the whoop and halloo 
Of the youngsters, and praise, all unstintedly paid. 
Of the farm-hands, and worship of each dairy-maid. 
Kow, cc-me forth, Helen Graves! For the little world here 
Stands expectant to see Dick Rolfe's sweetheart appear. 
In the whole country round thus by man and by maid 
You are labeled by common consent; and 'tis said 
A V)rave pair you will make; and no tone of dissent 
From your lips has been heard to this voiced sentiment. 

vSheishere! She is fresh as the new-fallen snow; 
And as gaily and heartily smiles she, as though 



PASSION'. 117 

Never cloud had she known. 

v. 

Dick his passenger fair 
In the sleigh seats; a word to the team, and the air 
They are pawing. 

VI. 

The hour is the closiu"- of daj^; 

And, as swiftly the chestnuts in pride speed away. 

Slowly rises the moon in her glory, in flood 

Of white light bathing nature. 

In tune and in mood 

To enjoy to the uttermost this so enlivening scene, 

Helen Graves, animated with zest sharp and keen. 

As they glide through the snow, the embodiment seems 

Of true, sentient delight. Her discourse with life teems; 

For 'tis not the past, cold, cheerless, musty, and dead, 

Nor the future, with films of day-dreams overspread. 

Mainly burdens her converse just now: 'tis the present. 

Its sharp, breathing facts, and its thought efferve.scent. 

Its issues of pleasure and pain, of content and unrest, 

And of right and wrong — life-issues, racking the breast 

Of humanit}-, turning the struggling world 

On their pivots, and blazoning banners unfurled 

By armed hosts. 

VII. 

She is careful, however, to stray 
Never too far be3-ond the frontier of to-day. 
On debatable ground, whereon ultimate sources are traced 
Of the wrongs to be righted or evils effaced; 
For, although Richard Rolfe was e'er ready to fight, 
With a stalwart, stout, unflinching arm, for the right. 
As to him handed down, and b}- him understood. 
Yet he deemed life too brief for his spirit to brood 



ll^i IIJCLKX. 

O'er the chaos of causes and principles, trying 

To sohe i)r()l)knis tlie riglit and the wrong" underlying^ 

Or to trace U]) loo closely the process how he 

In the right and his toe in the wrong came to l)e. 

He had listened intently while she had discoursed, 
And had less of his own bright remarks interspersed 
Than his wont was to do; for 'twas truthfull\- said 
That Dick Rolfe had a dexterous tongue in his head, 
One that on lubric hinges with nimble ease wagged, 
And in speech on most topics afloat rarely lagged. 
Yet the skill of his tongue now but little availed; 
For, as often before, he had signally failed 
To her obdurate heart any entrance to gain. 
And a transcript of records there kept to obtain. 

IX. 

The gay sleighride thus ends; and, a victor once more. 
Now exultant sing, Helen, your new triumph o'er. 
You are free; you are mistress of self; the siege laid 
Is not won; your heart-issue you still can evade! 

X. 

Bidding Helen good-night, Rolfe was lil'ting his reins, 
"VVTien from old Farmer Graves came imperative strains: 
" What, Dick! Going? I can't hear a moment to that! 
You must stay here to supper, sir! That's .squar and flat! 
Hello! Mcses! Job! Washington! Caesar! Come here! 
Sleighbells jingling as bravely as these can't you hear ? 
Would you let Master Dick's trotters freeze on their pins, 
While by Aunt Dinah's fireplace you're toasting your shins? 
Make haste, and them chestnuts take straight to the barn! 
While, Dick, you to the parlor v;itli Helen adjourn. 



PASSION- . 119 

Whar the big maple logs in the great hearth are burning. 
We've built a huge fire thar, against jour returning. 
And besides, Neighbor Dick, I don't reckon you know 
That occasion I took of this first fall of snow 
To bring down with my rifle a fat buck to-day. 
And Aunt Dinah a haunch of it has under way." 

XI. 

There was still better reason Dick Rolfe could have given. 
Why more strongly he had with the mandate not striven; 
But he j-ielded in silence, and joined Helen where 
Flushed she stood, with a halting, irresolute air. 
And accompanied her to the fire-lighted room, 
Which her presence for him all-sufficed to illume. 

XII. 

. . . With thoughts crowding, absorbed, erect standing, 

he gazed 
Mutely into the hearth where the roaring logs blazed. 

"Pray be seated," said Helen: a strange, restive 

feeling, 
A sense of half-guiltiness over her stealing; 
For in Richard's demeanor one clearly might .see 
There were signs of a gathering heart-mutiny. 
. . . "Thank you; I prefer standing," he said: and his 

eyes 
Looked a look of such earnestness only as lies 
In firm purpose, of heart-travail born. 

XIII. 

Then he broke 
The oppressive, forced silence, and burning words spoke — 
Words which longer evasion defied: 

' ' Helen Graves, 
Long enough at the sport of the winds and the waves, 



120 HELEN. 

On the wild, raging" ocean of love I've been tossed, 
Passion-torn, with chart, compass, and rudder all lost. 

What need, Helen, to tell you I love you '^ You 

know 
What my love is for you, as n'ou know the warm glow 
Of the fire in this hearth that now reddens your cheek 
With reflection of flame. Shall I ask, shall I seek. 
What reflection glows in your own heart from the fire, 
The o'ermastering, sweeping, soul-reaching desire, 
Which is burning my breast ? ... I lia\e sougiit, I have 

asked, 
I have questioned of you with ni}' acts; I have tasked 
All my strength of expression, to draw from your heart 
One acknowledging word that to me should impart 
What my soul longs to know, what ni}- whole being cra\es — ' 
What you shall me no longer deny, Helen Graves! " 

XIV. 

Then with suddenness burst o'er her passion's wild storm; 
And, with arms strong and agile, he seized her lithe form. 
And with gripe of a bear drew her close to his breast. 
While his lips to her cheek and her forehead he pressed. 
With a panther-like fierceness. 

All struggling were vain: 
As well struggle the reed with the wild hurricane; 
As well struggle the toy-barque, but ])uilt for the hour, 
With the rou.sed ocean's savage and merciless power. 

XV. 

lyike the hare in the coils of the python she la>-, 

Till the first shock of startled surprise passed away; 

Then came slowl}', while crimsoij grew brow, neck and cheek, 

Words the tensive occasion impelled her to speak: 







>-? 



PASSION. 133 

•'I appeal, Richard Rolfe, and I know not in vain, 
To your honor, which never has suffered a stain, 
To release me at once. You've assumed to be true 
What exists not, though I may have given to you 
Such encouragement as I should never have done; 
For I cannot return the affection you've shown." 

XVI. 

She was conquered in spirit, and humbled in mien; 

And the tones of her voice made it plain to be seen, 

That she could not that proud indignation command 

Which gives woman the firmness and strength to withstand 

The advances temerity passioned may make. 

And chains forged of adverse circumstances to break. 

XVII. 

'■ I release you," he said, " though I own to no wrong; 
For, although you have found my embrace to be strong. 
You shall find that the unrelaxed grasp of my love 
Stronger still, and by far more resistless will prove." 

XVIII. 

The warm color was gone in her face that had glowed, 
And a paleness succeeded it. 

Silent she stood. 
Looking lull in the face the bold love-mutineer: 
Looking full in his face, and yet not resting there; 
Looking still beyond, into an eye that had dwelt 
On her own with a great love, which having once felt. 
Could her heart know an equal one ever again ? 
Thus, amid saddened tumult, of breast queried brain. 
And her heart sighed: 

"Ah me! If Mark Landis's arms 
Had thus savagel}- seized me, my maiden alarms 
Had been drowned in love's unstified joy." 



l--*4 HKI.KN. 

XIX. 

All this passed 
Through the doubt-perplexed, lo\-e-]ni/,zlcd brain, heart, and 

breast 
Of the pride-humbled Helen, while standing before 
This roused rebel with whom she could i)arle3- uo more. 

The long pause was becoming oppressive. Again 
Richard spoke, but this time in a more subdued strain: 

XX. 

"In \our smiles I could bask all the years, and let life. 

With its turbulent tide, and its feverous strife. 

Pass me by, and flow ou, leaving me on the shore, 

A poor idler, bereft of demonstrative power. 

And bereft of the manhood that stands and as.serts, 

And deals hard blows and strong, and takes wounds and gives 

hurts. 
But no idler must I ever be, and my place 
I must once more resume in life's sharp, eager race. 

I had treasured the fancy that you loved me well: 
I have been self-deceived through the fond, witching spell 
You have over me cast. But my love is too strong 
To yield now. I shall still love you patiently, long; 
I shall love you with all a man's far-reaching love; 
I shall love you with love which exhaustless will prove." 

XXI. 

Richard then gently took both her hands in his own, 

And o-ontinued to speak in a tenderer tone: 

" I now ask you no ((uestions; await no replies; 

But gaze into the depths of your kindness-filled eyes, 

And they truthfully tell me, I think, my sweet friend. 

That in still loving on I in no wise offend. 



PASSION. 125 

Yet I could but love on, were you angered or kind; 

For no more can I tear you from heart than from mind." 

XXII. 

She was grateful to him that he questioned her not; 
That he had not more closely her heart's reasons sought; 
That he had in the tenderest kindness refrained 
From unlocking the shrine that its treasures contained; 
Left undrawn still the innermost veil, unrevealed 
Still the ark in its holy of holies concealed. 

XXIII. 

She at last broke the silence: 

" Large blame may be mine ; 
But, if sinning, I scarcely have sinned with design. 
I am proud of the honor conferred by your love; 
I am touched by its loyalty. All else above, 
I discern, in this ardent affection of yours, 
Not a mere fond caprice, but such love as endures 
Through the clouds that care brings, such as faithfully wears 
Through the rubbings and wrenchings that come with the 

years. 
And if I could return it, and worth}^ I were 
To possess and enjoy it, my soul it would spur 
To exertions to sweeten and bless the large sphere 
Of existence ennobled aw^aiting you here, 
And your triumphs to crown with a love that should come, 
To all laurels to add a contentment-filled home. 
This I say, to show you that 'tis no idle thing 
That I mean, no mere flattery-tribute I bring, 
When I call your devotion an honor to me. 
Yet the object of these your attentions to be 



l-,>0 



hi-:i,i:n. 



Becomes now but the source of the keenest of pain; 
For I dare not encourag-e your fond hope to sjain 
My affections. " 

XXIV. 

" But, mark! It depends not upon 
Aught by you thought or felt, aught by you said or done," 
He returned, in a kindly yet so linn a tone. 
That she felt his strength gaining once more on her own; 
"Though you spurn me, yet still shall I love you the same, 
And your efforts to quench would but heighten the flame. 
Yet let me once for all for 3'our guidance now say, 
That in what has transpired naught of fault can I lay 
At 3'our door; and to do so unmanly would be. 
For a gentlemen who, with a fair field and free, 
Fails of winning the heart of the woman he loves, 
And then blames her, hijnself a poor gentleman proves." 

XXV. 

Tided over! A look of relief took the place 
•Of the one so perturbed which had passed o'er her face; 
And the wonted lines l^ack to her cheeks came again — 
Again into her voice the full, resonant strain 
That had oft made glad music in Richard Rolfe's soul; 
And once more o'er herself Helen Graves had control. 



CANTO ELEVENTH. 



MELODY, 



I. 

Came the supper: A scene for the gods to gaze on! 

, . . Farmer Graves lived in style of the days that are 

gone. 
In his old Southern home he had bond-servants held, 
In large numbers. The messuage with life they had filled; 
And no meal had complete been esteemed in the house 
Without something less than a full dozen black brows, 
Old and young, great and small, hovering round the board. 
And contributing all their diffusive parts toward 
The occasion of state. And this custom, so dear, 
To which, in all its cumbrousness, still to adhere, 
Was the pride of John Graves, with its memories fraught, 
With his household gods had from Kentucky been brought, 
When he came North and founded his new prairie home; 
And along with him, freed, his old servants had come. 

II. 
The great kitchen! Blest he who remembers its hearth 
So gigantic, so vast, with back-log of huge girth, 
And the loud-crackling fire; and hath seen, in the height 
Of her glory, the cook, with a brow like the night, — 
The old "Aunty", majestic, broad-shouldered and tall, 
Stern, imperious, frowning, in awe held by all. 



1:>8 HELEN. 

On this night she was there, in full bloom, in full power; 

And whoever had dared, at this so solemn hour, 

To infract her decrees, or her dignity scorn. 

Or make light of her frown, had best never been l^orn. 

III. 
With the vast mass of viands the table is piled. 
There is venison, opossum-meat, fowl, tame and wild; 
The materialized ghosts of great turkeys, like faith. 
There transcendent in martyrdom, triumph o'er death; 
And stufifed rabbits, that counterfeit life's native grace, 
In roast pride laugh mortality's self in the face; 
And mysterious dishes of rare, toothsome dainties. 
Evolved from the fathomless depths of old Aunty's 
Capacious and cavernous brain. 

IV. 

Full a score 
At the farmer's o'erladen board sit, though no more 
Than himself and the one lovely daughter belong- 
To his kith and kin of the domesticant throng. 

v. 
In the far, tender days of a season that came 
Like the breath of the angels, and left but a name 
And a pledge — the prized name to be evermore kept 
As the most sacred relic in memory's crypt. 
And the pledge to be nurtured and nourished in care. 
And held free from the world's rough erosion and wear,- 
There was anchored a love in those far tender days, 
That linked old Farmer Graves to the past and its ways. 
And when, looking across the broad table, he gazed 
Fondly on his fair Helen, his pride, there was raised 
From the depths of remembrance a Helen as fair. 
And as sweet, with a Ijeauty as bright and as rare, 



MELODY. 12H 

As now dwelt in his sight. And he felt not the years 
That had passed as the fleetest of dreams, while his ears 
For the moment were deaf to the sounds of to-day; 
And on memory's wings he had wandered away 
To tlie pleasure-fraught scenes of a sunnier clime, 
And the golden-winged hours of a happier time. 

VI. 

At the right liand of Helen sits Rolfe. Fair to see 
Are the twain, and, in unrestrained comment and free, 
Low-toned, favoring murmurs the table go round. 

VII. 

" They are made for each other." 

"A match, Fll be bound! " 
" That thar young Yankee farmer is sacked, I am told." 
" Not a man in the country a candle can hold 
To Dick Rolfe." 

'■ Well, that ought, sure enough, to be .so, 
If he hopes with Miss Helen to stand any show." 
' ' When are they to be married ? " 

"Can't tell; in the spring,. 
It's most likely; for Christmas, I'm thinking, would bring 
It around altogether too soon for her, who, 
Unlike most of our girls, is in no haste to go 
From a home where she's so loved and prized." 

VIII. 

Thus the talk 
Flowed in currents of frankness through this honest folk, 
And 'twas clear that the drift of the sentiment there 
Made Dick Rolfe and Miss Helen a surely matched pair. 

IX. 

And the dark " cloud of witnesses " standing around 
(Whose opinions on such themes Avere strikingly sound) 



130 h?:lex. 

Were a unit with old Uncle 'Bijah, who said, 

As the chimney-jam buttressed his white, woolly head : 

" Yaas : Mars' Dick an' Miss Hellun 'ud make a i)eert paar — 

Mos' as peert as Mars' John and Miss Hellun dat war 

Made in ole Kaintuck vender, in times long ago — 

In (le days, 'fyer heah me, dat doan' come roun' no nio' ! " 

X. 

Richard Rolfe was not sorry to see that all eyes 

Toward Helen and him were directed sidewise : 

And he easily gathered, though hearing no word, 

That they two formed the topic which ruled rountl the l)oard; 

Nor was old Farmer Graves either worried or \-exed 

To observe where the focal attention was fixed. 

This last fact his loved daughter's sharp glance escaped not ; 

For she long had suspected that if she had sought 

To please him in the choice by her heart to be made, 

His cup full would be filled should she ' ' Neighbor Dick' ' wed. 

XI. 

How oft happens it, that, in life's drama, our parts, 

Quite regardless as well of desires as deserts. 

Are by others' hands for us arranged ! And, alas, 

How oft also doth destiny bring it to pass. 

That we yield our own wills to the casts thus designed, 

And assume, without protest, our roles as assigned ! 

XII. 

. . . And what thought gentle Helen the while ? Did she dare 

To give rein to reflection ? Did she harbor care 

As to what this small world was now saying or thinking ? 

It was plain that she was neither shirking nor shrinking ; 

And one would have said, nothing hidden she feared : 

F'or more full of strong life had she never appeared : 



MKLODY. 131 

Never had she exerted herself more to please ; 
Never seemed with herself more completely at ease. 

XIII. 

. . . Supper over, the rich voice of Helen was heard 

In such strains as Mark Landis's soul had oft stirred, ^ 

And which now, while with song the great parlor they filled, 

Richard Rolfe's breast with still new and fresh delight thrilled. 

They rang through all the house, and no heart but was cheered; 

And the darkies, in native tones, plaintive and weird, 

Took again the refrain, and gave back from their throng, 

In melodious measure, the heart of the sony ; 

Which was one of loss, sweetened by trust ; a strange strain 

Of commingled regret and content ; a refrain 

Bearing in it a sorrow not hopeless ; a joy 

Modulated ; a faith with scant earthly alloy. 

'Twas I-have-and-have-not, and I-love-and-love-not, 

Into melody turned, into sweet numbers wrought. 

XIV. 
But the words lent not mainly tht? life to the song : 
Not in them lay such power the spell to prolong : 
'Twas the voice that rang out in mellifluous waves. 
And, transcending the limits of art's defined staves. 
Made a track for itself over melody's sea, 
And wrought out a new harmony, wild, fresh, and free. 
Helen Graves, in her far Western home, had discerned 
The new harmonic star in the East, and had learned 
Of the prophet who had to old Europe revealed 
What the music sublime of the future should jield; 
And her soul had accepted, and uttered again, 
The new gospel of melody given to men. 
Thus, while half-improvised was the air that she sang, 
In word-strains such as these the rich symphony rang : 



13;i HELEN. 

ryafurc s ©olaces. 
I. 
O, the robin sang gaily a song glad and rare, 
And it floated far out on the fresh morning air. 
* My heart, torn with o'ershadowing grief, 
Had in vain sought relief; 

And I asked of the robin : 
" Red robin, tell me, 
What so joyous and free — 
What it is that your song makes so joyous and free ? " 
Then the robin replied, 
While no note of his died ; 
" I but joy to reveal that my song had its birth 
In the heart of the world, in the sweet breast of earth : 
For the world's heart is warm, and the earth's breast is true ; 
And, O, sad human soul, nature breathes but for you ! " 

2. 

And a melody tender the nightingale fair 
Sang, which thrilled with its music the evening air. 
I was weary, and worn with unrest. 
And my spirit unblessed ; 

And 1 said to the nightingale : 
" Nightingale, tell 

What with sweetness doth swell — 
What it is that your notes with such sweetness doth swell." 
• And the nightingale said, 

At the stars over head 
Looking up : " From the soul of the beautiful night 
Came my song — soul as pure as stars yonder are bright : 
For I watched while the angels in Paradise dreamed, 
And my song from the dreams they were dreaming I framed." 



MELODY. 133 

3- 
O, the rose it bloomed freshl}-: rich scent did it bear, 
And it burdened the breath of the soft summer air. 
All my being some malady long 

With deep anguish had wrung. 
With the rose then I pleaded : 

" Flush rose, tell the tale, 
Such perfume to exhale — 
What it is gives you power such perfume to exhale ? " 
Then the rose turned its head, 
And with glowing face said : 
" 'Tis the world's better hope, 'tis the fullness of faith 
In the things that shall be, gives me sweetness of breath ; 
For it lends my soul strength, and it yields my heart health. 
And it fills all my life with affection's great wealth." 

4- 
And the violet bended with grace, O, .so fair, 
As it drew in the breath of the afternoon air. 
Pride had darkened my days ; I was bowed ; 
I sought rifts in the cloud. 
I appealed to the violet : 
" Violet, say. 
With content all the day — 
What it is with content fills 3'ou all the long day." 
And the violet said: 
' ' There is love overhead : 
There is love all aroiuid me, though little I'm seen: 
And I know I am loved; thus my heart is serene; 
And I care not to bask in the sunshine's broad glare; 
For love lives in the shade, and there's love everywhere." 



134 



ii]{ij-:n. 



. When, in blissful sensations ra]"»t, homeward he drove, 
Richard felt a new life his ambitious breast move. 
He in Helen an undefined something had seen 
Placing her far beyond his aesthetic demesne. 
This invested her with a new charm in his eyes, 
And renewed his resolve to secure the high prize. 

. Once again, Helen Graves, now beware, O, beware ! 
Your besieger seems triumph to scent in the air. 
The siege now will be stronger, the lines closer drawn; 
Keep your ramparts well manned, your portcullis let down ! 




«| k J-i^.. 





J'or I louf i(our grtat heart, l©ark, my king I If ijuu live, 
ir ijDu dip, I am yours, I am i)our.-», to tht end. 



CANTO TWELFTH. 



LOVE. 



I. 

Helen went to her chamber, but not to find sleep. 

Long she sat in a re very, reaching and deep. 

Strong emotions, now bursting their chains, ruled her breast, 

And refused to permit it in quiet to rest. 

She arose, and, while facing the window, her gaze 

Rested on the full moon, whose pure, affluent rays 

Filled with glory the room, and transfigured her form, 

As she stood in communion with thoughts which the storm 

That had freshly swept o'er her had brought to her brain — 

Thoughts that drew regret's phantoms along in their train. 

In this mood she reviewed the thronged scenes of the day, 

And soliloquized thus, in a woman's own way : 

II. 
" O, Mark L,andis, I cannot absolve you from l^lame: 
I reproach you for not having courage to claim, 
As a bra\e claimant should, e'en in face of pale death, — 
Yea, despite the dread warning of destiny's wraith, — 
'W^'hat were j-ours without cavil. 

" If but for one da\" 
To your breast you had held it, then flung it awa}-! 
To have lived but one hour closed as fast in your clasp 
As I was in his manl}- and masterful grasp — 



138 HELEN. 

That were food to feed life; that were air to give breath; 
That were hght to guide hope; that were truth to light faith; 
That were plenteous wealth for all time to supply 
The vast treasure-house wherein love's memories lie ! 
And 3'et you to the winds with base recklessness flung 
An affection that through death's dark shades would have 
clung. 

III. 
" In return for your weakness of heart, I should throw 
My whole soul into this proffered new love, to show 
My deep scorn of a craven! ... 

. . . ' Mark L,andis, my lord 
And my master, my brave knight, forgive me that word! 
Sovran prince of my soul, you are brave, you are true, 
And among all the heroes I find none like you! 
Unto 3-ou, unto >-ou, my heart's worship I give; 
For I love your great heart, Mark, my king! 

" If you live, 
If you die, I am }ours, I am yours, to the end, 
Be it near, be it far, (), my lover, my friend! 

IV. 

" — To the end, did I say? — to the end of true love? 
Have God's aeons an end? Have the star-realms above 
A ceiled vault in the far empyrean defined? 

V. 

" No! As quenchless as faith, and as scathless as mind, 

As eternal as truth, as confineless as space, 

As unfading as hope, as unstinted as grace. 

By the throne of Jehovah, when time's tale is told, 

And earth's hfe but a dream, love its station shall hold. 

It shall stand by the River of Water of Life, 

Glorified by the wounds of the world's reddened strife. 



LOVE. 131) 

There my soul shall meet thine, O, m^- lover, my friend: 
There, Avhere love hath no bounds: there, where love hath no 
end!" 

VI. 

Again seated, she leaned her head back in her chair, 
0^•erwearied with l)roodings so freighted with care. 

VII. 

Ah, Mark Landis! wdiy could not one tone of this plaint 

Reach your ear? Without selfish or temporal taint 

Was this grand aspiration, this more than a prayer, — 

Hope's triumphant cry rising from depths of despair; 

Love's confession of faith, fervent, loft}-, sublime. 

Creed as broad as the world, as embracing as time! 

At that hour, when all better impulses held swa}- 

In this brave, struggling spirit, why could there not stray 

Some kind angel from routine of duty above. 

And come down to do one gracious service for love. 

By but wafting a breath from this muffled, true heart 

To the one, yonder, bleeding, in silence, apart? 

. . . Why, ah, why! All uncounted the hearts in the track 

Of dark fate that the myriadfold echo send back! 

VIII. 

. . . For a while from the flesh Helen's soul had been freed, 
And by still waters roamed, in a Paradise-mead, 
And amid shaded bowers, and in cool, fairy grots, 
And where hope found fruition. 

But ere long her thoughts, 
In despite of her heart's protestations, were turned 
To this man in whose bosom a love for her burned, 
Whose red flames flashed defiantly in their fierce wrath — 
This reality dread, standing straight in her path. 



140 HELEN. 

IX. 

And she asked of herself : 

" Must I learn to love him? 
Must I meet and embrace this fatality grim? 
And what sort of a love were it thus that I gave? 
It were fruit of a tree whose roots spring in a grave! 
And him coidd I love ever? O, heart, ask me not! 
Leave me free from the questions with soul-torture fraught! 
What I do, or do not, let the future decide: 
For this hour let me rest — let me float with the tide. 
On its bosom while onward my barque shall be borne, 
Near or far if the rapids be, let me not learn, 
If I yearn, if I struggle, 'tis vain; yet — and yet — " 

X. 

Again swept o'er her being a wave of regret, 

And upon it her spirit, with love's tumult worn. 

To the restful dominions of Dreamland was borne; 

For her senses, o'erwearied, resigned their control, 

And she dreamed such a dream as brought peace to her soul. 

XI. 

Blessed, now and forever, be Dreamland the fair! 

If with life's battle faint, we find truce sounded there; 

If care's cloud has grown black, there light gleams through 

the rifts: 
If grief weighs down the heart, there some sprite the soul lifts. 

^ >lC 5jC ^1% 

XII. 

Blithely passed the gay season with Rolfe, and it seemed 
That this bright world with only delight for him teemed: 
While the days all too quickly flew ove;f his head. 
And scarce reached seemed its midst, when, lo! winter was dead. 



LOVE. 141 

XIII. 
And liOAv prospered the siege? 

Helen's heart still held out, 
Though one outwork was captured — the Pity redoubt. 
Sympathy for the man who was wasting on her 
The devotion paid idol' by blind worshiper, 
And desire to please him who on her had bestowed 
.Her life, blossoming ever with bliss, until showed, 
Its horizon above, love's dread planet, and brought 
To her heart the fierce storm which such ravage had wrought, 
Well nigh made her at times pray to Heaven to turn 
Her so obdurate heart, and to aid it to learn 
To love him whom fate thus seemed to place in her way. 
. . . Yet the spring found her heart, where in autumn it lay. 
At the feet of Mark I^andis. Though pitying Rolfe, 
There was still between her love and him a wide gulf. 

XIV. 

And that never was winter so weary, was what. 
By his hearth sitting lonely, Mark Landis had thought — 
Sitting lonely there, or, with his sociable beasts. 
Keeping company while they partook of their feasts. 

XV. 

Thus these variant phases did winter assume 

To three hearts passing on through its sunshine and gloom, — 

Passing on to the bourne of all seasons and years. 

To quietus of heart-beats, heart-pangs, and heart-cares. 



PART SECOND 



tRIAli 



CANTO FIRST. 



WAK. 



I. 

There was war in the land. 

Passions stronger than death, 
Deep as hell, and as burning as^^tna's fierce breath, 
Bursting forth, rent the heart of the nation in twain. 

II. 
For the chronicler-bard it were fruitless and vain, 
To seek causes and sources to trace of the strife, 
Which, thus waged in mad hate o'er the nation's warm life^ 
While it gave to her bondmen the boon to be free, 
Left such memories rankling in years yet to be, 
As to cloud all the good that may from it have flown, 
Leaving war still a curse unapproached and alone 
In demoniac balefulness, earth's supreme bane, 
And our civilization's Plutonian stain. 
Let the truthful, impartial historian frame 
An indictment to fasten the burden of blame; 
For opinions formed in the war-smoke of to-day, 
Be they those of sage, statesman, or bard, must give way 
To the judgments of riper and wiser to-naorrow; 
Aud poets in no wise can trench on or borrow 
From history's oracles. 



146 HELEN. 

III. 

War ruled the land: 
Its wild spirit was master on every hand. 
It pervaded the pulpit ; through courts and schools swept, 
It invaded the precincts of home, and guard kept 
Over men's tongues and women's, to see that none wavered — 
That naught should ])e uttered of peace-thoughts that savored. 

IV. 

O, thou L,ord God of Sabaoth! Hasten the day, 
When men, brothers, no longer in war's red array 
Shall do battle and murder in any named cause, 
Be it for freedom's semblances, mutable laws, 
Constitutions ambiguous, rights sprung from wrong. 
Or gray crime-grants, embalmed in fair story and song; 
For weak governments, guided by freaks of the hour. 
Or for kinglets who reach for imperial power ; 
Or to serve feuds begotten in statesmen's intrigues, 
Or their mistresses' whims, or dark cabals or leagues. 
In a morbid philanthrophy's frenzied designs, 
Or in conflicts of creeds, or disputes of divines : 
Or for any right, interest, faith, or pretext, 
Based on claims in this world, or on hopes in the next, 
Sprung to light fires of hell in the earth's peaceful vales, 
And with cries of the furies freight freshening gales! 

V. 

, . . Richard Rolfe was a patriot. Love of the land 

That had given him birth, with its area grand, 

With its masterful millions of monarchs uncrowned, 

With its true recognition of labor unbound. 

With its wealth, and its strength, and its greatness, was strong 

In his breast, and he asked not her right nor her wrong, 



WAR. 147 

When a loud call to arms by his country was made, 

Which he no sooner heard than he promptly obeyed. 

He affected no fine metaphysics, and therefore 

Stopped not, searching after the why and the wherefore 

Of this mighty quarrel, but reasoned in that, 

As in all issues coming before him, from what 

To his mind appeared patent, and (frown not, my muse. 

While I here the expressive vernacular use) 

Reasoned "straight from the shoulder", as patriots should: 

Thus, without any if or and, ready had stood. 

And at once, dropping schemes, dropping love, dropping all 

Life held dear, had marched forth at the nation's sharp call. 



VI. 

Behold yonder fair landscape! The calm smile of God 

Seems to rest on it, brighten it, hallow its sod. 

Watch the stream o'er its pebbles run rippling along; 

Hear it purl like the rythmical spirit of song; 

Observe yon still retreats, whither lovers might steal, 

Their hearts' secrets to nature's close ear to reveal; 

Mark the breeze o'er the fields of the golden grain sweep, 

Standing ready for reapers who come not to reap; 

See the farm-house that stands in the maple-trees' shade — 

But, say, where are the tenants? — asleep, or all fled? 

See in pasture and upland the cattle and sheep 

Calmly grazing — how sagely the secret the}- keep 

If a secret this landscape there be hanging o'er; 

But the bees in the meads are a gossiping corps; 

And the birds in the apple-trees carol so ga\-. 

That all nature seems taking a glad holiday. 



148 HELEN. 

VII. 
But again look, and closer, o'er this quiet scene. 
Do ye see, lying hid in those thickets of green, 
Lying buried 'neath waves of the golden-eared grain. 
Crouching, sheltered 1)>- stable, by shed, rick, and wain. 
Creeping under the ])anks of the murmuring stream, 
On whose surface the sunbeams dance, sparkle, and gleam, 
And hid close 'neath the roses whose breath freights the air, 
Human forms, watching, waiting, like Nemeses there ? 

VIII. 

Are these savages, lurking to seize on their prey ? 

Not at all! They are soldiers, awaiting the fray. 

They are civilized foemen, in war's earnest vein; 

They are men on the picket-line, watching for men, — 

Watching sharply for forms like their own to come forth; 

For the forms of men, kindred in race and in birth; 

Watching closely for chances to slay them at sight, — 

Yea, to slay them with calmness, in glare of the light 

Of this radiant, glad, early summer mid-day. 

In the face of God's love, and his " Thou shalt not slay! " 

IX. 

And, mark! Yonder, where meadow-lands skirt the dense 

grove, 
Now appear here and there, and as stealthly move, 
Other forms, other men, other uniformed foes. 
Likewise waiting, and watching, and lurking for those 
Who are brethren in interest, brethren in blood. 
Eager with them to plunge into slaughter's red flood. 

X. 

One thin, white puff of smoke now with suddenness leaps 
From a clump of trees round which the rivulet sweeps; 



WAR. 149 

And a sharp, stinging- sound the day's charmed stilhiess breaks, 

And the first echoes of the approaching fight wakes. 

Then in rapid succession comes shot after shot. 

Picket-firing has opened! The skirmish is hot; 

And along the bright stream now the roused foemen press, 

While at each rush their numbers grow fearfully less, 

As they one by one fall in the silvery flood, 

And the waters pellucid grow dark with their blood. 

XI. 

. . . But that's barely a brush — merely skirmishers' play: 
They have hardh' yet opened the glorious da}'! 

XII. 

On the farther confines of the picket-line, hark, 
Where across the wide fields the long-range rifles bark. 
They have there a rare sharpshooters' match! One detects 
How each marksman his doomed human target selects. 

XIII. 

" Yonder stands a proud youth, in his confident strength: 

It is far, but my rifle will carry that length. 

. . . Ha! I brought him! My lad, they will wait for you 

long. 
In your loved, distant home, when the evening song 
With hushed voices is sung; and — oh, God! /am hit! 
'Twas a home shot! . . . Boys, leave me reclining a bit; 
Please, a drink! Jim, this keepsake to poor Mary send. 
. . . What. Are you also struck ? Well, old comrade and 

friend, 
Then together we'll die; and some one may yet tell 
At our homes, how here in the front, fighting, we fell." 

XIV. 

" Jack, d'you note that white beard ? It's a good mark for me: 
I am going to draw a dead bead on it . . . See! 



lad HELKN. 

It is not quite as white as it was! Hit the throat! 
'Tis an officer: tell by the braid on his coat. 
This will gain me a chevron, I hope; and I'll soon, 
If I score a few more such fine shots as this one, 
Sport a shoulder-strap." 

XV. 

Thus goes the skirmishing on, 
While still hotter and hotter the firing has grown : 
And they fall, not by ones, but by tens, and by scores. 
Now the flying artillery belches and roars; 
They are shelling the woods, and, ah! the.se are on fire. 
Of the wounded and dead alike making a pyre! 

XVI. 

The two armies, at length, in unmasked strength come forth, — 
Cannon, cavalry, infantry, shaking the earth: 
The great guns blazing fire with hoarse hell in their breath, 
And the fierce dragoons trampling and sabring to death. 
By the hundreds, the thousands, the brave foemen fall! 
God of mercy ! A truce to the mad carnage call ! 

XVII. 

... At last, pitying night, with its sad, kindly face, 
With its friendly enwrapment, to wild day gives place, 
And the combatants, weary with slaughter, retire. 
To renew on the morrow the havoc of fire. 

XVIII. 

O, bright landscape that lay in the morning so fair, 
Where are now your glad beauties, which laughed in the air ? 
Where is now the ripe grain that in golden pride stood ? 
Darkly runs yonder stream with clear current that flowed! 
O, sweet rose-tree, 'neath which a l)rave form was espied, 
Redder than your red roses your leaves now are dyed; 



WAR. 151 

And where breathed in the morning the bahn of your breath, 

There now rises a dank, sickly odor of death! 

O, ye apple-trees, then thick with bright blossoming, 

Small the fruitage that with autumn's gold you wnll bring! 

O, ye birds that made vocal those apple-tree boughs, 

As glad songs as this morn's the next sun will not rouse! 

XIX. 

The black demon of war now his tenure doth yield. 
For the angel of mercy hath charge of the field. 
And her servitors gather the wounded and dead, 
While repairing the waste which that demon hath made. 

XX. 

..." Who is this that so slowly and sadly you bear ? " 
" 'Tis an officer, for better dress does he wear 
Than the foe's rank and file: that, however, is all 
We can tell. He was hit with a large musket-ball 
In the breast, very close to the lungs. Not a word. 
Since we took his form u}), from his lips has been heard. 
Except one." 

"And that? " 

"Helen." 

' ' Bah ! How^ will this aid 
To identify him ? We have loverless made 
Many hundreds of Helens b}^ work this day done. 
Dress his wound. Report: ' Prisoner, wounded, unknown.' " 



CANTO SECOND. 



RESOLVE. 



I. 
On the prairies are summer's full glories displayed, 
And the groves in their deepest of green are arrayed. 

II. 
Helen Graves on the spacious veranda is sitting, 
While the moments on idle wings past her are flitting — 
The veranda, low, Southern-styled, old fashioned, quaint, 
But as dear to her heart as the shrine of a saint; 
Round her climbing the vines, in rich, clustering grace, 
Through whose veil the warm sunshine steals over her face. 
She has sat there and dreamed in the motherless years 
Of her childhood, when dreams were oft melted in tears — 
Tears not such as of waters of INIarah partake, 
But like unto the dew left when April mists break. 

HI. 

. . . Since the day Richard Rolfe, at his regiment's head, 
Marching off to the war, " Good bye!" gently had said, 
With love's own look of fondness, herself she had sought 
In the court of her conscience to try. She had brought 
'Gainst her.self all the charges that could be devised 
B}' accusing remorse. 

IV. 

The indictment comprised 
Manv counts. 




^3 -^ 



m S 






RESOLVE. 155 

This the first one: that with subtle art, 
She had bhiided, beguiled, and betrayed her own heart; 
Next, that she to Mark L,andis, in wrongfulest scorn, 
Had denied her heart's child, which was honestly born; 
Then, that false and deceptive herself she had shown 
To the true heart from brave Richard Rolfe she had won; 
And, again, to her own soul unfaithful had proved. 
And untrue to its high aspirations; unmoved 
Sat while with their grand issues the starred days went by, 
And no part sought to take, and no venture to tr}-; 
Had sat cowering, shrinking, 'mid ghosts of regret. 
Without courage to hope, or the will to forget; 
With no strong trust to cling to, no great end to gain; 
With no plenary love the heart's strength to sustain, 
While beneath the soul's care it should grow in love's grace, 
But to gather its fruitage as seasons increase. 

v. 
On behalf of Self, then, Pity put in the plea, 
That the strong arm of fate had not left her hands free; 
And that not on Self wholly the fault-burden lay; 
That love had been by circumstance robbed of its sway. 

VI. 

To this plea, the heart, joining the issue, demurred. 
And made earnest and fervent demand to be heard 
On its own l^ehaK, claiming that love hath no law; 
That the heart of no task-master standeth in awe, 
Save love's self; and that love that is true love doth stand 
Over fate, as the firmament over the land. 

VII. 

Then stern Conscience, the judge, judgment gave on this wise: 
That Self had been most blameful; that through sacrifice 



IdC) HELEN. 

Onl>- e'er can the spirit gain peace, and be blest; 
That as Self had not sacrificed, Self had no rest. 

viii. 
Then did Self murmur at the decree, and complain: 
"Did I not, in the travail of woe and of pain, 
Sacrifice my one treasure — plunge into my breast 
With ni}' own hand the knife where the idol la\- ])ressed?" 

IX. 

"Nay. not so," answered Conscience, the judge: "name not 

aught 
That with spirit of vengence is thought or is wrought, 
As intent or as deed sacrificial. \'ainly made 
Is the offering, .save on the true altar laid." 

X. 

Then was duml) the condemned, guilt>- Self: 
And it only thought this: 

"For the paltriest pelf, 
For poor pottage and leeks, for the lees of the hour, 
I have sold, I have bartered, the heart's gentle power! 
But to gratify spleen, but to humor caprice, 
I have breached, I ha\-e l)lasted the heart's .sacred peace!"' 

XI. 

Inquisition the sternest the culprit now made 
On her treatment of Rolfe, and her conduct thus weighed: 
"And where, then, do I stand, in the light of the lo\-e 
Of this great heart, this proved heart, my own far above. 
Of this stout heart that bravely went forth, that may now, 
While I here idly pine, in death's stillness lie low, — 
Where do I, in that light, beaming honestly, stand? 

XII. 

"Shade of Madam Marsile! My 1)row wears the dark brand 



RESOLVE. 157 

Of a falsehood embodied, as deep as the .soul, 

As offensive and rank as a breath from Sheol. 

Him I never have loved; yet I never have dared, 

Coward base that I am, let my bosom be bared, 

And its secrets be shown. Did I need be ashamed 

That these secrets so cherished be known and be named? 

God of Heaven, forgive me! My sin is too great: 

I bend low with the burden — I break 'neath its weight!" 

XIII. 

With her face in her hands buried, and her dark hair 
Flowing loosely and mantling her form, she sat there. 
And longed onl)^ for tears — for such tears as had flown 
In the bright, sunny days that her childhood had known. 

XIV. 

. . . Up and down this large world I have roamed, far and 

wide, 
And full many a woman have met in her pride, 
And full many a one in her humbleness seen. 
And some myriads more in the golden between; 
But, as far as I've wandered, I've never met one. 
In whatever clime under the sweet-smiling sun. 
In the sleepy old lands that are washed by the Rhine, 
Or the wide-awake realms Mississippi's banks line, 
Where the Mediterranean's blue billows leap. 
Or where over the Pampas the Andes gales sweep, 
Old or young, grave or gay, brune or blonde, plain or fair, 
Or as ugly as sin, or with loveliness rare, 
I have never met female who did not feel better, 
Whatsoe'er her condition, when handed a letter. 

XV. 

Helen Graves was to this no exception. She stirred 
With a feeling of joyous surprise, when she heard 



158 HELEN. 

From her dear parent's lips, that he held in his hand 
For his darling- a missive. 

From Re very -land 
She came back, and looked up through her curls; and there 

stood. 
Gazing down upon her in the tenderest mood. 
The benign, loving-kindness filled, worshiping form, 
That, a vigilant warder, in sunshine and storm, 
Had been guarding, adoring her, all the years through; 
Though of ward, ah, how little the fond warder knew! 

XVI. 

the letter. 
Dearest Cousin : 

Although not inclined to forget 
That in our correspondence you stand in my debt; 
Yet I disregard scruples in now writing you, 
And in sending you this, as I must send it, through 
The close-drawn lines of war, and unsealed, which, you know. 
To a woman who has no vain itching for show. 
Is intensely annoying, especially when 
One has something to saj' that one wants not rude men 
To peer over, which now just the ca.se is with me. 
. . . Pray, when were you engaged, Cousin? Or, can it be 
That you're married? — And this, by the way, brings me straight 
To my point, for which, doubtless, you anxiously wait. 
After one of the battles they've recently fought, 
A supposed dying officer, captive, was brought 
To the outpost at which brother Harr}' commands. 
And, too feeble to move, was left there in his hands; 
And this prisoner's lips have been since closeh' .sealed 
In unconsciousness, just as when bortie from the field, 



RESOLVE. 150 

Save when fitfully breathing one name with low moan, 

And that name, strange to say, my dear Cousin, 3'our own. 

But still stranger: a locket was found in his breast, 

Which was covered with blood, and all battered, and pressed 

Fairly into the flesh, but thus breaking the force 

or the ball, and deflecting its death-seeking course. 

And the locket, thus shielding his bosom in part, 

Kf])t the bullet from l)e(lding itself in his heart; 

Though it ploughed through his breast, tearing like a hacked 

knife. 
And the mangled frame left but a shadow of life. 
And the closing fact for me remains now to tell, 
That the locket contained your own likeness, dear Nell! 
— Thus writes Harr)-, who wants me to ask 3^ou to give 
This poor ofiicer's name, and his rank. Should he live, 
Harry sa3'S, for your sake, he will do what he may 
To procure his exchange. 

. . . Cousin Nell, do you pray 
That this carnage ma}- cease? Let us plead 
Daily that mercj-'s angel may soon intercede, 
Brothers' daggers from bosoms of brothers to keep. 
It is all we poor women can do, save to weep, 
And to bind up the wounds that are made day by day, 
While the spirit of hate hourly widens its sway. 
. . . You are wrong, you know, Nell, in this war: but I bear 
Toward you no ill-will, as your home is up there; 
Though all kin I've foresworn, to the end of n\\ days. 
Who down here for your cause voice or arm e'er shall raise. 
. . . And ties not those of blood I have severed for aye. 
You remember the lover I had? He's away 
In the enem\-'s ranks. 



J<'>0 HELEN. 

Thus heart-troubles in waves 
Flood the breast of 

Your ever clear Cousin, 

Maud Graves. 

XVII. 

What is grander, sublimer, in nature or thought, 

Than the birth of a noble resolve? Tell me not 

Uf a Venus arising from depths of the sea; 

Tell me not of a sunburst illuming a lea; 

Tell me not of Aurora from billows of dawn 

Springing vip, b}- her coursers aerial drawn; 

Tell me not of a rose bursting forth in its bloom. 

When the soul bringeth forth from its faith-pregnant womb 

A great purpose of good, to be baptized of hope. 

And full-armed to proceed with earth's powers to cope. 

Or to sacrifice, suffer, or silently bear. 

There's but one thing in time Avith which it can compare: 

'Tis the scene in the manger, where burned the bright star,- 

'Tis Immanuel's one glorified avatar. 

XVIII. 

From perusing the letter, arose Helen Gi;aves, 
With a soul such as frownings of destiny braves; 
With a heart such as circumstance-barriers leaps; 
With a breast such as counsel with energy keeps. 
Xo more yieldings to siren suggestions of ease; 
No more base, cringing compromise-making for peace; 
No more crouching 'neath shadows of doubt or of fear. 
Stand back, tempters! A live, earnest woman is here! 
Shrink back, demons of darkness, and skulk to your caves! 
You are no longer masters where breathes Helen Graves! 
She is queen of herself. She, in grace and in power, 
Proudly steps forth and rules, is not ruled by the hour! 



RESOLVE. 161 

XIX. 

. . . Farmer Graves, sitting under the shade of his trees, 

Was enjoying his pipe and his afternoon's ease. 

Helen came and sat down on his knee, and caressed, 

Petted, fondled him, stroked his gray beard, and then pressed 

His great hands in her small ones, and toyed with his fists, 

And at length tied together with ribbons his wrists. 

" Now," she said, " you're my prisoner. I must take you 

Far away with me, as they with war-captives do; 

And I'll hold you in bonds till you heed my behest." 

XX. 

"Yes, my girl," he replied, in half earnest, half jest; 
"You shall take me wharever you please. I will go 
Far and long — round the world, if you choose. Let me know 
•Whar and when you would travel. I'm yours to command." 

XXI. 

" If you only were serious;" and her soft hand 
She then laid on his shoulder, and into his eyes 
So intently she gazed, that a silent surprise 
Overspread his mild face, and he said: 

"What, my child! 
Do you doubt me? Have I once with promise beguiled 
That thar trusting and all-loving heart? Nary word 
From these lips, now or ever, my girl, have you heard, 
But the truth. I for you am all truth. Though I lied 
Like the veriest thief to the whole world beside, 
To my darling I would not, could not lie and live. 
She has all of my confidence. Now, will she give 
To her father and friend some small part of her own?" 

XXTT. 

Helen shrank at his searching glance, while he went on: 



102 HELEN. 

"Tell me what is the longing that gives you unrest: 

Tell nic what I can do to give joy to your breast. 

Would you wander in Old World lands? This you shall do: 

I have time; I have means; and they're all, girl, for you." 

XXIII. 

Then she kissed him as sweetly as lover could kiss; 
And she said: 

"O, my father, not this, no, not this, 
Though to me as the honey of Hybla 'twere dear, 
And would realize longings of many a year; — 
Not for this shall I ask; not there now would I roam. 
But in lands in the New World; in lands nearer home, 
Although farther in spirit removed from us now, 
Than those where savage races to savage gods bow." 
Here she drew from her bosom the letter from Maud, 
And a blush tinged her cheek while she read it aloud. 

XXIV. 

"Dick alive? God be thanked 1 I'd clean given him up !'' 
Exclaimed old Farmer Graves. 

XXV. 

Then said Helen : 

•• The hope 
Is a faint one that he may survive : That hope faint 
Is one I could make stronger, if thither I went." 

XXVI. 

The least shade of a frowai flitted quickl}- athwart 
His rough face; but enough to strike chill to her heart. 
"Is it right, Helen, love, is it squar', that the child 
Of John Graves should a thing do so wild? 
You are not his affianced, you are not his bride. 
What excuse could you give to the world thus defied?" 



RESOLVE. 103 

XXVII. 

The reply that was given was one that alone 

Could from woman's breast come, when, assumptive, its own 

Boldly womanhood claims, and assertingly stands, 

While demanding great work for its e'er read}' hands; 

XXVIII. 

" I should go, fearing not to incur the world's scorn; 

I should go in the right whereunto I was born; 

I should go as a woman, her mission to do; 

I should go as a Christian, to trj- to prove true 

To the memories clinging round Calvary's tree; 

I should go as a friend, which I glory to be; 

But, in prouder capacity still, I should go 

As the daughter of honest John Graves, whom to know 

Is to know that a daughter of his could not do 

Anything to be justly brought under review. 

Where I went should my father go: who, then, would dare 

Call in question my right to appear anywhere? 

No times, seasons, nor places, calls mercy her own, 

And shut out is her ministrant spirit from none." 

XXIX. 

There had mounted, meanwhile, all the heightened Graves 

blood 
To her cheek and her forehead, in one crimson flood; 
And John Graves, looking on it, was proud of his child, 
And no longer saw aught in her plan that was wild. 

XXX. 

"Well, well, darling; I yield. Your own way you shall have, 
And I'll help you to rescue poor Dick from the grave." 
She embraced him, her gratitude warml}' to prove. 
And he thought: "How profound for Dick Rolfe is her love!" 



164 



HELEN. 



XXXI. 

Thus we go through the world, one and all, self-deceived, 
Or deceived by friends nearest; impressions received 
In the heart's chosen moments at times telling lies, 
On which feed misconceptions, whence grievings arise. 
And the bitterness bringing estrangements of heart, 
And the friendships of golden years rending apart. 
And all this while intent is the purest and best, 
Springing where love's own beni.son blesses the breast. 

XXXII. 

O. strange riddle of life! who that riddle hath read? 
Wondrous maze of the heart! who that maze shall e'er thread? 
Purblind weaklings, how hug we the vain, fond pretense. 
That wc one with another exchange confidence! — 
That we throw open e'er, for one hour in time's tide, 
All the soul's window-blinds, to swing freely and wide! 
No! on never a morning of gladness or joy, 
Be the breath that mild zephyrs breathe never so coy. 
Play the sunlight around us in beams ne'er so bright, 
Does the soul, when admitting the air and the light, 
Let the eyes of heart-favorites, true, near, or dear, 
Through all windows and into all recesses peer. 




1'„: ■■> • 'iiii,, 



CANTO THIRD, 



SACRIFICE. 



I. 

There were Graveses in both armies, fighting for rights 

As ilhisive as gleams of the Great Northern Lights; 

There were Graveses in gray; there were Graveses in blue; 

There were Graveses uncertain which color was true, 

Toward either maintaining an armed attitude 

Of neutrality. So that John Graves found his blood 

Flowing on either side, and "betwixt and between," 

A'ery much to his moral perplexing, I ween. 

Yet a patriot no less was he. Though his line 

Civil war rent asunder, and feelings malign 

Made of kindred sworn foes, still the great heart he bore 

In his breast was unswerved and unblinded,and true to the core 

To the nation as one, to the flag, clean and free. 

To the race, as inheriting one destiny. 

II. 
The close, warped definitions of patriot faith. 
Springing out of war's fetid and feverous breath. 
Are akin to those born in the schisms of creed, 
On which theologues fatten, in truth's sorest need. 
Blatant demagogues ever on shibboleths thrive, 
And as oft to the heart of true loyalty drive 
The sharp steel of proscription, as into the heart 
Of rank treason. And since it is out of the smart 



inc. HELKN. 

Thus produced — out of rancors and hurts festering — 
That their profit, and vantage, and glory they wring, 
'Tis small matter to them how results, that are fraught 
With such gainfulness to them, are compassed or wrought, 

III. 
And in like way divinity dogmatists stand, 
With the red-heated orthodox irons, and l^rand 
With the heretic stigma, promiscuously. 
All who fail truth through their narrow lenses to see. 
The fact that on the smell of the burning flesh grows 
The unsavory bigotry-tree, on whose boughs 
Hangs the fruit which they feed on, suffices for them ; 
And they reck not how loyal the souls they condemn 
May to God and to right and humanity be. 
If the eyes of the world shall their brands plainly see. 

IV. 

, . . Strange and sad seemed it to Farmer Graves, as his way 
From the ranks of the Blue to the ranks of the Gray 
With his daughter he made — from the old Stripes and Stars, 
All within the same land, to the new vStars and Bars : 
With white flag to be passing from camps of his kin, 
Through scenes which by his childhood's years hallowed had 

been, 
To camps where other kindred, in hostile array, 
But awaited the signal to ravage and slay. 
. . . Yet, O, student of history ! these are the signs 
Of a war internecine, and these the red lines 
Such a war through a land of enlightenment draws, 
Whatsoe'er be its aims, whatsoe'er be its cause. 



SACRIFICE. l'^-> 

V. 

In a hospital-tent, in a peaceful spot placed, 

With the choicest of nature's embellishments graced, 

Where the rays of the sun, through oak boughs stealing 

down, 
Were upon a serene scene of suffering thrown, 
Beneath rough-handed, kind-hearted soldier-care la}- 
Richard Rolfe, with a slow fever wasting away. 
Slumber visited seldom his worn, shrunken frame. 
And l)rought little refreshment whenever it came ; 
While with void, leaden e3'es, gazing e'er into space. 
At a something they seemed never able to trace, 
He watched, waited, in mood uncomplaining and mild, 
And submissive and meek as a suppliant child, 
As if fearing impatience w^ould frighten away 
The fond object his spirit still beckoned to stay. 
... In the hush of the sunset hour, gliding as soft 
As winged messengers bearing a freed soul aloft. 
And as gently as dew falls when rose-leaves it laves, 
To that tent came the presence of fair Helen Graves. 

VI. 

Bending down o'er the cot, she breathed low but one word — 

" Richard ! " — word the weak sufferer's muffled ear heard ; 

And the tympanum magic of sense took the tone, 

And through long silent mind-chambers sounded it on, 

To the throne isolated where sat the sad soul, 

Which gave heed, and sent into the e3-es dim and dull. 

With their look cold and death-like, so gladsome a glance. 

That it lighted with cheer the entire countenance. 

Though the gleam was but transient, with flickering light 

Half illuraina: the mind in delirium's night. 



1 70 HELEN. 

Vet the aui^el of hope whispered soft of the dawn, 
Whose gra.v lines on the spirit's horizon were drawn. 

VII. 

" It is Helen, I think," spoke the low, feeble voice ; 
" But I know not as yet, and I dare not rejoice ; 
For it may be a vision. If such it should ])rove, 
I should die of the pain of regret. 

" Do not move ; 
Do not leave me, 1 pray. Let me sleep, and get strength. 
I am weary." 

With sweet, restful slumber, at length, 
His exhausted and death-shadowed spirit was blessed. 
While she watched, like a guardian angel, his rest. 

VIII. 

From Hygeia's realm must some deft fairy have crept 
To his cot, and poured balm o'er his soul while he slept, 
And peace unto the fevered mind-mutiny .spoke ; 
For when once more the fetters of slumber he broke. 
Reason, like an estranged friend, returned ; and eyes glazed 
And lack-lustre no more into vacancy gazed. 
Slowly came to the cheeks something of the old hue ; 
And hope's signals, which had been appearing in view. 
Told the tale of life crossing in safety the gulf 
That had yawned between earth and the brave Richard Rolfe. 



IX. 

Lying one afternoon on his cot, by whose side 
At her post Helen sat, and her needlework plied, 
Making bandages for other wounded, (her soul 
Having been in sweet mercy's ranks moved to enroll 



SACRIFICE. ni 

For the war. ) Richard, still from the fever's rage weak, 
Turned to Helen and said : 

X. 

" Pardon me if I speak 
Of a matter that weighs on my conscience. To yon, 
My dear friend, I would make a confession, and sue 
For your pardon. 

" Before our brigade marched away. 
From your album your photograph taking, one day, 
In mere playfulness, while your attention was turned, 
A brief while I retained it, and ere 'twas returned, 
A thought wrongful suggested itself to my mind ; 
And, as conscience to yield to heart e'er is inclined, 
I did with the dear treasure, all unknown to you; 
What love's urgency only could tempt me to do. 

XI. 

" I had wished for ^-our likeness, but 3'et had refrained 

From requesting its gift, lest you might be constrained 

To refuse, leaving me a memento of pain 

To bear with me while longings unstilled should remain. 

I believed that in camp 'twould a talisman be. 

And I caused to be painted upon ivory 

A fair duplicate. Here it is, bruised, but still true. 

Talisman has it proved. I restore it to you. 

I have no right to keep it. To me though 'tis dear — 

God knows how dear ! — I dare not withhold it, for fear, 

If I failed restitution to make, that its charm 

It would lose, as an amulet shielding from harm." 

XII. 

Helen gazed at the miniature fixedly ; 
And she said : 

" 'Tis a flattering likeness of me ; 



ITti HELr:x. 

And somewhat on his fancy the artist has drawn. 
Pra>-, by whom, Richard, was it so charmingly done ? " 

X r 1 1 . 
" A revered common friend of ours, Helen, vvrou.u^ht this : 
One not given at all to such false flatteries. 
'Twas Mark Landis who painted this portrait so well : 
And you know that Mark Landis truth only can tell, 
Whether speaking with tongue, or with brush, or with ])en, 
And false colors wears not nor employs among men.'.' 

XIV. 

She suppressed the emotion her breast that disturbed ; 
For emotions still stronger than this she had curbed. 
Ah ! our Helen was learning the world's code by heart. 
And in life's profound drama perfecting her part ! 

XV. 

Control having once more of herself, Helen said, 
While again on his breast the bruised locket she laid : 
" That you had this fine copy thus made. I am glad ; 
I'm rejoiced that when wounded the locket you had. 
I forgive you with all my heart. Here : take again 
This by your loyal faith so o'erprized tali.snian, 
And continue to wear it for me." 

XVI. 

In her words 
There was that which awoke all the resonant chords 
Of his heart, and attuned them to music most sweet ; 
And the jo>- that he felt gave him boldness to greet 
Wliat he h()])ed the sure hari)inger now of that love 
He had looked for, and longed for, and yearned for, would 

prove. 
" Helen, tell me : can I not discern in your breast 
The first dawning of love for me ? O. to be blessed 



SACRIFICE. 1^3 

With your heart's strong affection throughout this grand 

strife, 
To my arm will give strength, to my soul will yield life." 

XVII. 

" Richard Rolfe," she replied, with a voice that was calm 

As the tone of a convent-nun chaunting a psalm, 

" I am trying to love you. Yovir love is so strong, 

And so deep, and so true, that it can but be long 

Before I in my weakness ma}' hope to return 

Its full measure. But teach me. I live but to learn 

How to love you."" 

The cadence was measured ; no change 
In the notes ; none were higher, none lower, in range ; 
But exactly and evenly moduled. 

XVIII. 

O, God- 
God of love ! Help this soul, passing under the rod ! 
. . . The dread passage is made, and the spirit is bowed — 
The strong spirit, erstwhile so rebellious and proud ! 

XIX. 

" Helen, now could I die with content ; but I live 
With new life, with new hope, to you proudly to give 
Each emotion of heart, each conception of brain. 
Till the One who gave breath to me takes it again. 
Seal with only one kiss the sweet promise you've given. 
And I'll sleep, and in dreams get a foretaste of Heaven." 

XX. 

For no more from her asks he, nor wishes he, now. 
He is .satisfied. . . . Satisfied ? How, tell me, how 
Can he still his heart's long-lasting, clamorous cry. 
With this ear-soothing, soft-sounding, mild lullaby ? 



l'^4 HELEN. 

. . . Yet this is but a thousand-fold tale that I tell, 
Which is told day by day in the world where we dwell, 
Of hearts clasping and hugging the shadow of love. 
While the substance far hovers the shadow above. 

XXI. 

O, Love, where in the universe wide can be found 

Mystery as inscrutable, wondrous, profound. 

As thine own ? On a crust, on a morsel, at times. 

Thou canst feed ; then, again, not the fruits of all climes 

Can thy greedy, insatiate cravings appease. 

There are hours when dark caves above arbors of ease 

Thou preferrest ; and others, when there can not bloom 

Plants enough thy luxuriant seats to perfume. 

When the mood is upon thee, if under thy spell 

Thou hast one faithful heart, in content thou wilt dwell 

On a lone, desert isle in the farthermost sea ; 

Anon, earth's teeming realms must pay tribute to thee. 

Giving sometimes thy all, thou dost ask, in return. 

Nothing more than the ashes in memory's urn ; 

Then, again, for a stiver expended by thee, 

Thou demandest the wealth of the Indies in fee ! 



CANTO FOURTH. 



DUTY. 



I. 

When across the bleak moorlands of sterile Regret 
Retrospection's chill winds sweep where Joy's sun has set ; 
When the wilder blasts out of the caves of Remorse 
Leave but blackened intention-wrecks strewn in their course 
When Hope's star, paling sadly her solacing light, 
Leaves the sk}- of the future one long arctic night ; 
When the demons of Doubt are let loose on the air. 
And their whisperings deepen the gloom of Despair ; 
Then come flitting, like snow-birds in winter's domain. 
The fond memories which after heart-storms remain, 
As the relics of happiness once we have known. 
These still linger to lighten hours weary and lone : 
They are few, they are faint, it may be ; but yet they 
Are our all, and we never can fling them away. 

II. 
To Mark Landis all now that remained of the past. 
With its pleasures and promises, too bright to last, 
With its treasures of gold that he once called his own. 
Which he would not have bartered for sceptre or crown, 
Was a sad, gentle memor}-. iVll else had fled. 
And was numbered by him with the things that were dead. 
This one relic he cherished, and tenderly pressed 
To his vacant, and widowed, and desolate breast. 



170 



HELEN. 



It was sacred l(^ liini as to monk crucifix, 
And he lajd it away in liis heart's sacred pyx. 

III. 
Then, endued witli a courage that nothing could daunt, 
And a ner\e that an Indian warrior might vaunt, 
Mark went forth in the world ; looked it straight in the eye ; 
Set his face to the breeze, with a soul to defy 
Wind and storm ; courted trouble, his heart to enure ; 
And gained spirit to struggle, and strength to endure. 

IV. 

So the world it went on, and its ranks closed again. 

As if never had been trace of anguish or pain ; 

As if nev^er in heart had a deep chasm yawned ; 

As if ne'er had a hope died the morn when it dawned : 

H'en as in a great battle the ranks close again, 

After clearing the field of the wounded and slain, 

Who are missed not, or, missed, only serve to prolong 

vSome lone evening's tale, or make sad some home song ; — 

E'en as in the great war, which was raging apace, 

Was the morrow e'er ready with men to replace 

Those who fell in the conflict to-day; and the word 

" Close the ranks !" was the order that ever was heard. 

'Tis the order that rings round the world in all strife ; 

'Tis the countersign fixed in the l)attle of life. 

v. 
Yea, the war raged apace — raged apace and amain. 
Men like cattle, like sheep for the shambles, were slain. 
From the Lakes all the way to llie (Uilf, but one thought 
Ruled men's minds ; from the plains to the seaboard they 

fought; 
And the God of the just on each side was implored 
To whet in its l)ehalf His avenging, swift sword, 



DUTY. 177 

While from altars dyed red by the blood of the slain 
He was asked to spread broadcast the spirit of Cain. ■ 

VI. 

. . . One day, sitting and reading the news from the war, — 

Reading listlessly, as one might read from afar 

The acconnts of a feud 'twixt a red and black race 

In earth's uttermost corner, — Mark Landis's face 

Was suffused with a scarlet flush, suddenly brought 

By the rush through his mind of a sharp, piercing thought. 

At perusing a call by the Government made 

For enlistments of troops in a new-formed brigade. 

VII. 

The imperiled republic was in sorest need; 
She had poured her best blood war's wild fury to feed; 
And now fresh hecatombs were demanded to sate 
The unquenchable thirst of the Moloch of hate : 
There were lacking more souls to be offered to fill 
The grim measure of sacrifice asked of her still. 

VIII. 

This the thought that stung Landis with sting keen and deep. 

And aroused him with smiting of Conscience's whip : 

" What a base, what a recreant spirit have I, 

To sit thus in a selfish securit}^ by, 

While the half of a world is in arms! S/n' has proved 

Grandly true while she has amidst suffering moved. 

Like a ministering angel from Heaven sent down. 

And my duty through noble example thus shown : 

Let me now do that duty as honor shall move, 

And as she from her lofty height can but approve. 

What though war to my spirit abhorrent may be ? 

'Tis no patriot's part such a conflict to flee, 



i:8 



HEI^EN. 



While in peril the nation's life lies. My full share 
Of the burden fate lays on my land let nie ])ear."' 

IX. 

With a man like Mark Landis, to form a resolve 
Was to act, and to make all great efforts revolve 
Rovind one dominant purpose. His soul was inspired 
With his new resolution ; his bosom was fired 
With the ardor of noble performance. An hour 
Scarce had passed before he was enrolled for the war. 

X. 

The enlistment of Landis stirred new life among 
The 3'outh of the vicinity, and 'twas not long 
From the day that his patriot decision was made, 
Bre he headed a company in the brigade. 




CANTO FIFTH. 



RECOGNITION. 



I. 

Once more, night on the battle-field. 

There has been won 
A great victory. Blood in dark torrents has run. 
Hearts by thousands have been since the morn stilled for aye. 
Homes unnumbered in anguish .proclaim that the day 
Is replete with rare glory. 

But cannon no more 
At this hour shake the field with their death-speaking roar, 
And the shouts of the victors no longer ring forth, 
To accompany souls taking last leave of earth ; 
For sweet merc}' rules now, and the ambulance corps 
■Gathers grain for the garner from war's threshing-floor ; 
While the surgeons and nurses, b}- torches revealed. 
Dress such wounds as need instant relief on the field. 

II. 
Here, a surgeon discovers a man lying prone, 
In a pool of blood even he shrinks to look on. 

III. 
" My poor fellow ! This was a severe shot, indeed I 
In the thigh ! Fearful wounds, those of this kind, to bleed ! 
It was done b^- a shell : Ugly gashes they make ! 
- . . No, ma'am, no ! [to a nurse.] It won't do yet to take 



ISO HKLKN. 

This man into the ambulance ! Too much l)loo(l flows. 
There's an artery severed. Tied once ? So it shows ; 
And done poorly, too ! 

" Madam, please hold uj) his head : 
He is fainting-, I fear, which will surely be bad 
For the case. 

" Now, my man, if you will but l)e brave, 
By effecting this ligature I'll try to save 

Your most badly torn limb, and your life (whose warm tide. 
If I do not mi.^take, ebbs now fast), [which aside 
To the nurse was observed.] . . . You're a captain, I see. 
And (juite young, too. 

. . . "What ! . . . Ah ! vSo I feared it 
would" be ! 
You've no stomach for blood, ma'am ; that's plain to be seen. 
This is far too rough work for one raised as you've been." 

IV. 

This remark of the surgeon's was caused by a cry 
That escaped from the nurse, as a torchlight passed by, 
And upon the dark, powder-grimed face threw its glare — 
The brave face she was holding so tenderly there. 
No sound else passed her lips. 

To her task in the dark 
She bent, causing the surgeon no further remark. 

V. 
Meanwhile uttered the sufferer no moan nor cry. 
And he only evinced his intense agony. 
When the surgeon felt round among tendons and cords, 
(Where his fingers seemed clul)S and his instruments swords,) 
By occasional wincings and cringings of nerve, 
As the good man proceeded to cut and to carve. 




♦^ 



o. B 






5 B 



fH <-, 



RECOGNITION. 183 

And i)ul into some sort of presentable shape 

The limb mangled and haggled by shrapnel and grape. 

VI. 

" And now, Madam," the surgeon said, " if I may ask 

That you ride in the ambulance with me, and task 

Your assistance still further in this incident, , 

We'll ourselves take this man to the hospital-tent ; 

For I tell you that only -with greatest of care, 

(And perhaps, I should add, with the aid of strong prayer,) 

Can the already flickering flame of his breath 

Be redeemed from extinguishment speedy in death." 

YII. 

In tones furtively whispered the.se last words were said 
In the ear of the nurse, in the brief pauses made 
In the surgeon's glib talk, while arranging a place 
For the man in the ambulance. Eas}- to trace, 
'Midst professional phra.ses in roughi.sh garb dressed, 
Was the deepened anxiety thrilling his breast. 

VIII. 

When his patient was by his arms ready and stout 

In the woe-laden vehicle placed, and the route 

To the hospital taken, the surgeon went on 

With his chat, till the head of the Captain bent down, 

As if fled was the monarch of life from his seat — 

Bent down limp on his breast, like a reaped spear of wheat. 

IX. 

" This is .something I dreaded," the surgeon .said, pained 
Beyond power of concealment. " His system was strained 
To a tension too great for e'en his wondrous nerve. 
And the task is now desperate life to con.serve. 



lS-1 HELEN. 

He has swooned, you perceive, Ma'am, from sheer loss of 

blood. 
. . . But you also appear growing weaker ! You've stood 
The scene bravely thus far: bear it out! Take a drop 
From this flask: it is whisky — the best. It keeps up 
Sinking spirits when nothing else will. It is not 
Of the sort which the ( lovernment vilely deals out 
Through its own connnissariat. 

. . . " No ? Well, 'tis true, 
It is not just the drink for a lady like you ; 
l-5ut war hardens us all to the roughest of things ; 
And God knows that for all of the justice it brings, 
There's a terrible offset of ill. 

' ' I was wrong- 
To impose such a task upon you. Being strong, 
Stout, and tough, I forget still that others are weak. 

X. 

. . . "We're approaching the tent: it is time! . . . You 

don't speak! 
. . . O, (jod! She, too, has fainted ! Poor child ! What a 

scene, 
Sandwiched thus the dark horrors of warfare between !— 
His head laid in her lap, and her head on his breast! 
They appear like fond lovers, in love's blissful rest; — 
And the two total strangers I 

XI. 

" Here, vSergeant ! Oive aid ! 
I've two persons as lifeless as if they were dead. 
Handle tenderly this so strange pair that you .see ! 
From depletion of blood he has fainted, and she 
From exhaustion: that's all. 



RECOGXITIOX. 



185 



" But, my man, have a care ! 
Do not be quite so rough ! . . . Take him first. Gently ! 

. . . There ! 
To her tent, now, drive quickly, the headquarters near. 
Don't you see? She's the wife of our new Brigadier !" 




CANTO SIXTPI. 



PRAYER. 



I. 

O, Religion ! Though history's just muse imputes 

The worst wars of the nations to priestly disputes ; 

Yet, when wounding and death come along in their train, 

From their blood-bearing issues thou dost not abstain. 

Thou art ready to bind, and to heal, and to soothe, 

The bruised body to balm, or the pillow to smoothe. 

Tliy bright presence lends ever assuagement to pain, 

And the color brings back to the wan cheek again ; 

Or, when clouds, hanging heavy and stifling the breath. 

Show the Valley where hovers the Shadow^ of Death, 

There, with faith-inscribed banner, thy beaming form stands, 

Pointing " over the river" to radiant lands. 

Where there never is heard war's tumultuous blare ; 

Where the smoke of the battle swells not on the air ; 

Where no morning drum beats, and no reveille calls ; 

Where no hero is lost, and no champion falls ; 

Where the bugle sounds never to ride on the charge; 

Where pale cowardice haunts not the field's safer marge; 

Where no long marches lie through the summer's hot dust. 

Nor the drear rains of autumn, nor winter's harsh frost; 

W'here no picket looks far with strained eyes for the foe; 

Where no signal-lights gleam, and no bivouac-fires glow; 



PRAYER. 187 

Where the sharpshooter makes not his target the breast 
Of the tallest, the proudest, the bravest, the best; 
Where no camp-fevers, lurking in mists from the grave, 
Shame the sword as they feed on the breath of the brave. 

II. 
Beneath ycjn \ello\v flag* the sharp rifle barks not, 
And no cannon's throat there belches forth screaming shot. 
'Tis the Hospital Flag: let its color be blest, 
And on all 'neath its folds let a benison rest! 
Hang back all of your standards, with heraldry proud, 
In whose quarterings historj^'s memories <:rowd, 
Through stained centuries running back into the night 
Of barbaric dominion of might over right: 
Though 'neath each have the brave with the brave greatly 

vied, 
With the blood of the peoples are all of them dyed ! 
Bring the Hospital Flag to the farthermost front. 
And baptize it in sacred Humanity's font, 
With the name, which will live while it graces the air, 
Of the Banner of Mercy. Its cross let i:s wear 
As our civilization's best symbol and sign — 
As the mark of its touching, for once, the divine. 

III. 
In the qmiiut convent-garb of her order, there bent 
O'er a, wounded man's cot, in the hospital-tent, 
A mild Sister of Mercy. 



■■■On the Sth of August, 1884, in General Order No. 90, issued by di- 
rection of the War Department of the United States, the Hospital Flag, 
which had hitherto been a plain yellow one, was changed to a white flag 
with a red cross in the centre. This was done in accordance with Art. 
VII of the Convention between the United States and the other civilized 
powers of the world, held in Geneva, vSwitzerland, a few weeks prior to 
the issuance of the order. 



188 IIKLICX. 

The patient still slept; 
But not strong was his breathing-. Anxiet>' crept 
O'er the face of the nun, as she noted how faint 
Were the slow respirations, which thus came and went. 
As if balancing- whether 'twere better to seek 
To keep life in the embers, so low and so weak, 
Or to yield u\) the struggle that wearied the breast, 
And sink into the g-rave's undisturbed, dreamless rest. 

IV. 

" Hoi}- Mary, l)enearl"' the nun ministrant prayed; 
" Be still near; for a spirit lies deep in earth's shade. 
Intercede, Virgin Mother, with Him thou didst bear; 
For death-whisperings float on the breath of the air!" 

V. 
Slumber's delicate veil-film was Hfted at length, 
And the e3'elids made show of asserting their strength; 
But, fatigued with the task, after casting one look 
At the face bending o'er them, the effort forsook. 
The sweet nun made no sign, save a peace-speaking smile, 
And the sleeper lay voiceless and moveless the while. 

VI. 

But he slept not. 

The soul, of the mind and the sense 
Taking counsel, was weighing the blent e\-idence, 
As to which of the shores of the death-severed sea • 
It was now resting on. 

" Am I not at last free ?" 
Thus it (jueried ; " and have I not reached Paradise? 
And is not this an angel attendant? 

" Earth's guise, 
And its trappings, I thought were l)y me laid aside 
For time's durance. I thought, and I wished, sense had died. 



PRAYER. 189 

And the face now bent o'er me, so placid, serene, 
Is a face such as only in visions I've seen. 
Those calm, passionless features, how can they belong 
To a spirit not freed from earth's turbulent throng?" 

VII. 

Thus the soul of the intellect queried. And then, 
Strength collecting, the latter resumed the dim train 
Of reflection, back wandering to the dark field 
Where life's pulsings in silence had seemed to be sealed. 

VIII. 

"Ah! That strange, wild scene, yonder, in shadows of night — 
Shadows cheered by a presence assuagingly bright, — 
I had thought that that closed with the dawning of morn 
In eternity, whither my spirit seemed borne 
Upon pinions of mercy and love. 

' ' For so dense 
Was the gathering darkness that curtained the sense, 
That the world was shut out from me — all, save the light 
From those dark, lustrous eyes which beamed down on my 

sight; 
And I gazed far, far into their depths, and saw there 
Something superterrestrial, heavenh^ fair, 
Which then led me so gentl}-, so softly from life, 
That I parted with joy from its pain and its strife; 
And that luminous presence still lighted my soul, 
Breaking loose from the shackles of sentient control. 
Through the gathering mist, and the gloom, till the breath 
Became tideless and still. And I thought that was death." 

IX. 

Then the mind was at length with these questionings worn, 
And again into regions of Slumberland borne. 



11>0 HELEN. 

X. 

Came the snrg-eon. 

" Well, Sister! you're likely to find 
Work enoui^h in the new field to which you're assigned," 
He began, in his usual garrvilous mood. 
" By what name shall I call you, please?" 

" Sister Gertrude." 
*' By the way, a young officer, late on last night. 
Was brought hither in rather a dangerous plight. 
With a very unpromising femoral wound, 
Who, while riding with me in the ambulance, swooned. 
Will you please to tell me how does that case progress?" 
" He lies 3^onder, and sleeps." 

" Then the danger is less. 
Has delirium shown?" 

" Not as 3-et, sir. Too weak 
Without aid to move, making no effort to speak, 
He lies hovering — " 

XI. 

" 'Twixt the two worlds. That I know. 
'Tis a toss-up which wins. 

..." Pardon, Sister: I show 
Less of heart and of sj-mpathy, possibly, than 
You may think I should feel. But I take in this man 
A strange interest, and I niost earnestly hope 
We may save him. If only his courage keeps up. 
And that ugly and dreaded death-fellow, gangrene, 
Our profession's bete noir, does not yet supervene. 
We can save him, I think. 

" Before taking a look 
At him, (which I am anxious to do, for with smoke 



PRAYER. I'.'l 

Was his face blackened so, with his head turned away, 
And so dark was the night, that one hardly could say 
If he was white or black,) there's a message I bear, 
I'll deliver. 

" Worn down by exposure, night air, 
And miasma, the brave lady who, on the field, 
Helped to dress this man's wound, has been forced now to 

yield 
To a raging camp-fever, and bids me ask you 
All that human care can for this patient to do. 
And in time and eternity her gratitude 
Will be yours." 

XII. 

" I will do so," said Sister Gertrude ; 
" But has that gentle lad)' the Virgin implored 
To petition the throne of her Son and our Lord 
For this soul? For such aid is required." 

XIII. 

" I can't say, 
Tender Sister, through whom she's accustomed to pray," 
Said the surgeon, (who, let it be frankly confessed. 
Buttoned less of religion than heart "neath his vest;) 
'■ But I'll swear that she praj-s to some one; and I'll lay 
A large wager no prayer from her heart goes astray." 

XIV. 

Honest surgeon, your plainness is gold. Your rough phrase 

A great truth for this age, and all ages, conveys. 

Let theologists wrangle o'er dogmas and creeds: 

How discern they, how gauge they, the soul's sorest needs? 

Let the nun through the \'irgin her pleadings put forth; 

Let the other her prayers without aid send from earth: 



W2 



HELEN. 



If they both start in pureness of heart, they will each 
The Great White Throne above with all certaint>- reach. 
This I say, nothing- doubting, l)y virtue of faith 
Planted deep in my soul by the Author of breath — 
Faith not learned in the halls of divinity schools, 
But transcending- all creeds and all dogmatic rules. 

XV. 

The warm heart of the world, beating true, through all time, 

To the heart of the victim of Calvary's crime, 

Bids me speak for the right of the soul to seek Heaven 

In the ways unto it through its mother-faith given, — 

Bids me claim that the heart may send upward its plaint 

Through the sanctified soul of some favorite saint. 

Or through that of the mother the stable who graced; 

Or yet through the best One, who unmurmuring faced 

All the terrors of death and all demons of hell, 

And by love's magic power broke evil's dark spell; 

Or, sufficiently strengthened in spirit and grace, 

Conunune with great Jehovah unveiled, face to face. 

Heaven's language is multitongued, and o'er the world, 

Wheresoe'er be our risen Lord's banner unfurled. 

The glad gift pentecostal its blessings extends. 

And to tongues weak and souls weak its loving aid lends. 

XVI. 

Thus the soul, be it lowly, or ranked with the proud, 
With this privilege precious is ever endowed. 
Let it pray in a tongue that is lost in the ages. 
Or pray in the language of bards or of sages; 
In speech that is dainty, aesthetic, and fair, 
Grown in culture and taste, culled with delicate care; 
Or in dialects sprung from the slums of to-day. 
Where humanitv's self breathes the breath of decay; 



PRAYER. IP;^ 

Let it pray in short form, or in long- form, or none; 
Let it pray in coat, kilt, blouse, cloak, surplice, or gown: 
Let the heart but be Godward turned, and God will hear. 
Though the plea meet approval of no human ear. 

XVII. 

For God hears not as man hears, — thrice blessed the thought! 

If He did. with what ruin our worship were wrought! 

Should the angel of justice e'er critical grow. 

And test all of the prayers that ascend from below 

By the pure adoration up there recognized, 

And admit none but after that standard revised; — 

If for praj'ers out of place, out of taste, out of tense; 

If for pra^-ers ill constructed, and wanting in sense; 

If for praj'ers sacrilegious in spirit and tone; 

If for prayers in which self is unshrinkingly shown; 

If for prayers where the Christ is most deftly belied. 

Though by synod, or council, or church ratified; 

If for prayers which the veriest pagan would shame; 

If for pra^-ers that are Christian-like onl}- in name: — 

If, up yonder, I say, the lines closeh' were drawn, 

(^The which, praised be all saints, we know ne'er will be done,) 

And yon angel each soul should to strict account call 

For its prayer-deficits. Heaven pity us all! 

XVIII. 

Sec the child at the side of its mother kneel down, 
And climb up to its God through the folds of her gown! 
Mark the weak, plaintive breath of the soul-bud ascend, 
Where divine love and mother-love mingle and blend! 
Who shall question the fact that its prayers are all heard, 
Though its heart in the main is by mother-love stirred? 
O, divinity doctors, when will 3-e discern, 
That like children the peoples the God-love must learn, 



194 HELEN. 

And that yet in its childhood humanity kneels 

At the feet of the good mother Wisdom, and feels 

Its slow way o'er the path by Immanuel trod — 

Its slow wa}', through that mother, to Him, and to God? 

XIX. 

. . . For the surgeon the nun through the cots led the way 
To where, still wrapped in slumber, the pale patient lay. 

XX. 

One look only the old surgeon cast at the cot. 
And intense surprise into expression was wrought. 

XXI. 

"What! Mark Landis! My dear lad! My favorite! You 
Lying here where death's presence lurks closely in view? 
And yet I to have handled you thus on the field, 
With ne'er once your identity to me revealed! 
Well, well, Sister! I am getting old, sure enough, — 
Old and childi.sh, as well as dull, clumsy, and rough! 
He breathes faintly; but there is no death in that .sleep! 
He will live! If the besom of war does not sweep 
His white life from the earth in some battle's red tide. 
He will win a name which among men shall abide." 

XXII. 

Then the surgeon mused thus, as with vSister Gertrude, 

On the calm .sleeper gazing, in silence he stood: 

" My dream faded away, like all visions and dreams! 

In his life my girl no beauty saw, and, it seems, 

None in hers he; and I as his lover was left. 

And I do love you, boy, though of that hope bereft! 

Even old men like me must have something to love 

That is beautiful, Hfe's work-day moiling above; 

And you're all that remains to my dried up old heart. 

My young Raphael, .sent to give new life to art!" 



PRAYER. 1!^5 

XXIII. 

The good surgeon from waking the sleeper refrained, 
Nor until his deep slumbers were broken remained; 
But went on to his duties, 'mid sickness and pain, 
With a heart as unselfish as rugged in grain. 



XXIV. 

Dark-brown ej-es, sunk and hollow; dark hair, flowing wide; 
Cheeks, once flushed, shrunk and ."fallow; form wasted, lips 

dried : 
Is this she who went from her fair prairie-home forth, 
At stern duty's demand, to give sacrifice worth, 
To give purpose to effort, and strength to resolve, 
And one problem in human existence to solve? 

XXV. 

' " Ah! So soon in the struggle o'ercome with defeat! 
So soon forced to effect a disastrous retreat! 
All my brave resolutions, my firmness, my strength. 
Have w^rought only this end, have reached but to this length! 
And dared had I to think, if by chance we should meet, 
I could look in his face, and his soul therein greet. 
And then go on m)' way, to the world speaking fair, 
And a look of serenest impassiveness wear, 
While no shrinking nor shambling my heart should betray: 
Yet the first glance wrought wreck, and — I fell by the way! 

XXVI. 

" In the night, in the dark, bj- the torches' red glare. 

O, Mark L^andis, why should ruthless fate bring you there? 



T.m; HELEN. 

Out of blood, out of dant^er, in deep agony, 
Vou there came, in the shadows, with greeting to me! 
O, the anguish of soul! O, the tempting of heart 1 
Each black fiend from perdition seemed plying his art. 
How so long I endured it, I know^ not — I know 
Only that when weak nature gave way, I bowed low, 
Bowled my head, and sank down on his breast! 

" Blessed Name, 
Christ all-merciful, to whom the tempter once came. 
Pity, pardon, and aid! I am weak, I am frail! 
Thou great Heart of Compassion, O, let me not fail! 

XXVII. 

" In late days I had wished, I had cherished the thought, 

That the motherhood-whisperings tenderly brought 

To the ear of m>- heart might call love into life; 

Might speak hope to the breast; might sound truce to the 

strife. 
Even these have been vain! 

XXVIII. 

. . . "Will he die? 

' ' At the thought 
Runs a shudder through all my poor heart. He must not! 
Living, he is a burden fate lays on my soul, 
And I've but to accept without murmur my dole; 
But, if dead, his untombed, martyr-spirit would be 
Ever present, a witness accusing to me," 

XXIX. 

Then she breathed this strong prayer: 

" O, eternal Lord Ood, 
Who didst bring from dark chaos the sweet, blooming sod. 
And didst plant in bright Eden all things that were fair. 
And then made in thine image the man to rule there; 



PRAVKR. IfC; 

Take thou iiilu Ihy kccpins^- this image of thine — 

On no fairer did ever th>- gladsome sun shine: 

Do not let him die now; earth hath need of such men! 

They are few: the\- are kin,gs in humanity's reign. 

Raise him up to go out in the glory of youth, 

And proclaim and be witness to life's golden truth! 

Raise him up to prove faithful to aims of his soul: 

Raise him up to show forth, as }ears onward shall roll, — 

Be they few, be the>- many for him, — that one heart. 

One at least, in this wide world, hath no lot nor part 

In earth's greed; that one soul can in strength rise above 

The all-grasping, all-hoarding, hard self-gain of love." 

XXX. 

Thus .she prayed, and she afterward mused: 

" And then, 
Miist I go through the ordeal — meet him again? 
I do thank thee, my Lord, that my illness is great: 
For it keeps me away from the tortures that wait 
For me yonder, where, if there shall nursing hands fail, 
Mine mti.st not be withheld, though my weak spirit quail, — 
Yonder, where calmly, greatly enduring, he lies. 
Where in anguish of body, it may be, he dies!" 

XXXI. 

God have pit\- upon her! God pity all who. 

With such crosses as hers, pass this weary world through! 

XXXII. 

O. ye Jews of the heart's realm, take heed how \e prove 

Recreant to the Heaven-owned spirit of love! 

If on Golgotha 3-e crucif}' it to-day. 

On the third day the stone from its tomb rolled awa}- 

Shall be found, and the new-risen, recognized lord, 

Once transfigured, step forth, and be thenceforth adored! 



CANTO SEVENTH. 



I'AITH. 



I. 

Slowly faded the rays of an autumnal sun, 

And a soft twilight left, in whose shade sat the nun, 

Her pale face with anxiety less clouded o'er 

Than at any hour in her close watching before; 

For, though weak from his wounds' fevered wasting and wear^ 

Mark was gaining beneath her assiduous care. 

While submissive his spirit, and docile his mood, 

It yet taxed all the efforts of Sister Gertrude, 

His too restive mind's bent toward expression to curb, 

And to guard it from all that might tend to disturb 

The so much needed calmness of nerve and of brain, 

Which the surgeon had urged her to seek to maintain. 

II. 
"Sister," thus Mark persisted, " while watching you move 
In your rounds here, impelled by the .spirit of love. 
Strange reflections my mind have been wandering through." 

III. 
" The mind should not be tasked by such troublous review," 
Urged the Sister; " there can be no rest while the thought 
Is with burdened humanity's problems o'erwrought." 

IV. 

Still unsatisfied, Landis continued, in strain 
Of intensity heightened by tension of brain: 



FAITH. IDi^ 

" It were easier, Sister, to give ample A-ent 

To my close-crowdiiii^ thoughts, than attempt their restraint. 

An idea your cherished faith's symbols suggest 

Has with emphasis strong on mj- mind been impressed: 

Of what prejudice are we the creatures, and how 

Warps antipathy all of our lives!" 

V. 

" Our minds Ijow 
'Neath the }-oke of inherited bias," explained 
Sister Gertrude, who would with her charge have refrained 
From discussing the theme. 

VI. 

■■ And I fain would believe," 
Answered he, ' ' that our natures the years may retrieve 
From such bias at length. But that yoke we hug still. 
With infatuate fondness that weakens the will, 
All awry turns the judgment, and leaves us, instead 
Of the lords of our reason, l^ut serfs, blindly led 
By nursed rancors, gray hates, and false leanings — the train 
A gangrened education has bred in the brain." 

VII. 

" Nay, ni>- brother! Be not to your nature unjust. 

And sweet charity's influe.nce do not mistrust 

In the motiving of human actions. Have faith 

That precedence love over antipathy hath 

In developing credence, determining thought, 

And the sentiments shaping through life-lessons wrought." 

VIII. 

" Sister, charity breathes in your every word; 
Yet my own life-experiences do not accord 
With your roseate view. For instance, I learned 
In mv vouth a hard lesson your faith that concerned. 



^^*^*^* HKI.EN, 

I was told 1)\- a mother as gentle as you, 

And as tender as on sacred Hennon the dew, 

That a SN-mbol of sin is the habit you wear; 

That no less is the cross at your side that you bear; 

That >oi:r praj-ers are all blasphemies, and that for naugh* 

Coimt your merciful deeds in just Deity's thought; 

That no savor with Heaven's immutable King 

Have the vows that you pay, or the alms that you bring. 

IX. 

" And, my Sister, while that sainted being, if now 

Looking down from the realms where her seraph-notes flow, 

Would to you waft a blessing from her crystal home, 

Dear as an}- pronounced b}^ your father in Rome, 

Yet on earth were she still, in this blazing to-day. 

In this glorying age of the intellect's sway. 

She would pray that my soul be redeemed from the snare 

Of the tempter, now over me thrown, in the care 

That with so tender grace you have on me bestowed; 

And yet this you have done in the name that e'er glowed 

In her soul, as the one pure, the one fadeless star. 

Which lit up the whole earth for her, blazoned afar 

All her course through life's shades, over death's darkened 

sea, 
And on into the realms where her spirit is free. 
And that mother of mine, with her soul all divine. 
Should she come now to earth, could not pray at the shrine 
Where you offer }-our vows: they would open the door 
And would bid her l)egone, like a leper impure." 

X. 

Then the Sister replied, pointing upward her hand, 
While lier features a bow of faith radiant spanned. 



FAITH. :^01 

And her cadenced voice raiii;- like a silvery bell, 
In the hush of the twilight's mysterious spell, 
Adding charm to her words: 

" There blooms charity there: 
There'll bloom charit\- hrrc, when time's seasons are fair. 
We must wait for them long, for all slowly they climb 
Up the track of the years; and in fullness of time, 
What we now see but on the horizon's dark verge 
Will in glory, and grandeur, and gladness emerge. 
But in my day I look for it not. 

" Heaven's days, 
And its seasons, its objects, its means, and its ways, 
Are not earth's. This we mortals are prone to forget. 
And forgetting thus, do we repine, chafe, and fret. 
If we could but with waiting faith hope's signs di.scern, 
If the lesson of sweet, restful trust we could learn. 
Ah. content were we, then, God's long thought to abide, 
And we'd sa}' of whatever things come on life's tide: 
' They are fair, they are good, they are right; God is just; 
All things doeth He well: Him in all things we trust.' " 

XI. 

"' Amen!" fell in response from a voice low and weak. 
Which from out of the ambient shade. seemed to speak. 

XIT. 

Sister Gertrude, in startled surprise, turned, and there, 
In the deepening shade that enveloped the air, 
Like a s])ectral appearance, a wasted form stood. 
Halting, shrinking, in doubting and hesitant mood. 

XIII. 

Came as well from the voice of the patient, " Amen!" 



•■lO'l HELEN. 

XIV. 
" I have come," said the voice in the shade, " to obtain 
Information of one in your charge. I have been 
Very ill since the night when they carried him in 
From the field. [Just then Mark turned his head in surprise. 
And there gleamed a strange look in his lustreful eyes.] 
The good surgeon has failed to keep me well advised 
Of his patient's condition." 

XV. 

" Were you not apprised," 
Asked the nun, " that our good, gray, old surgeon is dead?" 

XVI. 

" Dead f exclaimed the sad voice from the darkening shade. 
" Dead r' repeated the word weakened tones from the cot. 
" Dead I'" rejoined the calm nun. " At the front he was shot, 
Through a horrid mistake, by sharpshooters concealed, 
While exposing himself to bear off from the field. 
In the latest engagement, a brave orderly. 
Who was mortally wounded." 

XVII. 

" O, great soul, to me 
Undeservedly rendering aid Heaven sent 

On that night when I sadly through death's shadows went!" 
Said the patient. And then, for a space, not a word 
Through the sombre and sorrow-filled silence was heard. 

XVIII. 

" Do >-ou not need assistance?" the halting voice asked. 

XIX. 

" Not from you, gentle lady! Although I am tasked 
To the limit utmost of my nerves, I am strong, 
While not here, but upon your sick couch you belong. 
So, return, and ask Ood for new strength; for He knows, 
Soon enough vour y;-()0(l aid will be needed, wars woes. 



]AITH. 203 

New and fresh, to alleviate. Wave after wave 

Of blood breaks into ang-nish or into the grave. 

Have no fear, lady, that your white hands may lack work 

W'liile you linger in camp. Dangers numberless lurk 

In clouds hanging o'erhead, with calamity filled. 

Scarce an hour but our hearts with fresh terrors are thrilled. 

Ever comes the slow roll of the ambulance dread, 

Bearing wounded, or sick, or the dying, or dead. 

Though none dear to you fall by the next heavy blow. 

Forms that some hearts hold precious 'twill sureh' lay low." 

XX. 

While the nun was thus speaking, there gathered around. 
In the tent }et unlighted, dim forms, with heads bound, 
And limbs splintered and bandaged, on crutches, and canes; 
Some yet bearing the last battle's dark, ugly stains; 
Standing, sitting on cots, or upon the bare ground. 
Making never a motion, nor signal, nor sound. 

xxr. 
Then the lady-guest, half shrinking, questioned the nun 
For the meaning of this so strange troop, all in dun, 
Thus in aspect sepulchral and stillness arrayed 
Round this captain of mercy, a phantom brigade. 

XXII. 

" They have come, these brave fellows," responded the nun, 

" As accustomed since my labors here have begun. 

At this hour to sit silently by, listening. 

While the Kvening Hymn to the Virgin I sing." 

XXIII. 

" And may I be permitted to stand with the throng. 
And to listen with them to your reverent song?" 

XXIV. 

" I shall only be happy to count you with them," 
vSister Gertrude replied; and thus rendered the hymn: 



W4 HKLKX. 

Cvei^iija rivrrjr) to Iqc virqir). 

I. 
Gently the earth by the nii^dit-dews is kissed; 

Falls like a inautle the twilight's soft mist. 

Mother of God, in the heart's loneliness, 

Come, at this still hour, to soothe and to bless. 

Sweet Virgin Mother! O, spotless of birth, 

Favored of Heaven, thrice favored of earth; 

Mary Immaculate, heed thou our prayer: 

Aid us our trials and sorrows to bear! 

Ave, Maria ! 
II. 

Name that comes laden with love of a world; 
Name at whose pleading life's war-flag is furled; 
Name that can banish the fiend of despair; 
Name. that can scatter the dark clouds of care; 
Name that is blended with all that is blest; 
Name of all mortal names dearest and best; 
Look from thy throne of pure jasper on high; 

Feel the heart's agoiu'; hear the heart's cry! 

Ave, Maria! 
III. 

Through all the ages of life and of time 

Runneth thy mission of mercy sublime; 

Through all the changes the swift years have brought; 

Through all the evils that sinning hath wrought; 

Through all the weaknesses flesh hath confessed; 

Through all the achings that anguish the breast; 

Blessed of body and blessed of name, 

Mother of Sorrows, thou still art the same! 

Ave, Maria! 

IV. 

Thou at the feet of the Crucified One, 

While in dread horror was darkened the sun, 

Stood, as in agony quivered His frame. 

Faithful in death to the Holiest Name. 

Thus, when the sunshine is hid from our path, 

And we are compassed by shadows of death, 

Treading the wine-press that His feet have trod, 

Pray for us, watch o'er us, Mother of God! 

Ave, Maria! 




^ve, J*tarta ! 



FAITH. 207 

XXIV. 

In the shadows the hymn died away. 

The dim troop 
To the cots or their barracks dispersed, while the group 
Around which they had gathered remained. 

A strange spell 
Seemed to hold Helen Rolfe to the spot. Who shall tell 
What beneficent influences from the seen 
And the unseen combined, in that hour so serene, 
To speak peace to her heart? Was it part of the breath 
Of the Infinite, which, in the precincts where death 
Was an oft welcomed guest, and where suffering's home 
Had been fixed, wrought by miracle cheer out of gloom? 
Was it ])eni.son breathed by the sufferer there? 
Was it blessing that flowed from that rhythmical prayer? 
Surely something divine o'er her spirit had come, 
While she stood in the gloaming, pale, moveless, and dumb. 

XXVI. 

But no marvel attached to one sweet influence 

There exerted upon both her soul and her sense; 

For she beckoned, from where in the dun gloom she stood, 

Anxiously to the close-hooded Sister Gertrude; 

And then, twining her arm round the waist of the nun, 

Thus she whispered, as softly as mercy-streams run: 

" I have learned to suppress the emotions I feel. 

Else heart had into voice burst, dear Madame Marsile!" 

XXVII. 

Sister Gertrude replied, as she thrilled with delight: 
" The weak voice that came out of the shadows of night 
Rang like some recollected, melodious strain, 
Yet till now could I not follow memory's train. 



208 IIELKN. 

But, ni}' child, bear in mind, that of Madame Marsile 
Kartli knows no more forever. I cannot reveal 
Of the past aught to you; but in future, whene'er 
I can aid your dear heart to lift, lighten, or cheer. 
This of tasks the most grateful, still, Helen, will be, 
That my lile, in its multiplied griefs, leaves for me. 
I shall trust to my darling's discretion, to show 
B}^ no look, by no sign, that we each other know, 
Save as workeis together in sweet mercy's cause, — 
Save as bearers of burdens for hearts that have woes." 

XXVIII. 

Sister Gertrude returned to her patient, while still 

Helen silent stood, waiting, beneath the same spell. 

. . . She had felt at heart grateful that Mark had not spoken, 

And left still the silence between them unbroken. 

Save through words but directed to Sister Gertrude, 

Who as barrier gentle in panoply stood. 

Apart keeping these hearts, of each other afraid. 

Like two combatants, warily watching in shade. 

XXIX. 

. . . Would he speak again? Should she await a last word — 

It might be the last e'er from his lips to be heard? 

She had dared not to look in his face. She would go: 

He would not blame her silence: the cause he would know. 

Than she came, she could go with a far lighter heart. 

Heaven be thanked! 

Musing thus, she made move to depart, 
When the ])ale patient spoke to the nun: 

XXX. 

" I would say. 
Ere the lad}' shall go from this presence away, 



FAITH. 20!i 

That I feel a great strength in me springing to-night; 
And that while I shall still, till the last ray of light 
From earth's sun beams upon me, her memory hold 
As a sacred memento, more prized than all gold, 
And unceasingly bless her for there, on that night, 
Whose dark horrors gleam vividly still on my sight. 
Calling back the fast vanishing breath to a breast 
Whose throbs else had been stilled in obli\-ion's rest: 
And that while the remembrance of that night of gloom 
Will to me make life dearer in years that shall come: 
Yet I now feel hope strong, and shall not need her care: 
And my heart would less bend 'neath a load it must bear, 
Would she leave me to your tender watchfulness here. 
And seek strength for her duties to others more dear, 
Or where trials so stern may not wear her young days, 
Which must not be so rudely exposed to war's ways. 
For her j^ears are too precious to break in their morn; 
And too dear is her being to one who has borne 
In the battles of life and of war well his part, 
And deserved the best love that can spring from her heart. 
. . . This I utter iu kindness supreme. Does she see 
That I sa\- what is best both for her and for me?" 

XXXI. 

O, the grace of this speech! O, the rich, tender swell 
Of these eloquent words, which now soothingly fell, 
Not on passion-torn feelings, wrought wild with unrest, 
But upon a subdued, humble, dutiful breast! 
She could answer with calmness: 

" I feel, and I know, 
The advice is the wisest. Content I shall go." 

XXXII. 

And she passed through the shadows, out into the night; 
While Mark Landis thought earth had lost all of its light. 



CANTO EIGHTH. 



CONSOLATION. 



1. 



Nature's heart stirred anew with the forthcoming spring. 
Tree, shrub, plant, bulb, and kernel, each hfe-holding thing, — 
Roots that round Mother Earth's old heart close twined and 

clung. 
Moss, and fern, into sprovit, bud, or blossom had sprung. 
With her earth-mother in sweet accord, a new soul 
Helen Rolfe had felt leaping within her, which stole 
From her eyes the expression that there had prevailed, 
And their olden, full meaning for weary months veiled. 
Now investing her glance with a warm brilliancy, 
Which recalled the young prairie-girl, joyous and free. 
To the generous, patient, and fond husband, who 
The test years had l)ridged o'er with love fervent and true, 
That between maidenhood and full womanhood lay. 
Crowning yesterday's hope with the trust of to-day. 
Then her fair body blossomed in ])eauty, and l)ore 
What e'en Eden lacked — earth's sweetest, l)almiest flower — 
Motherhood. 



CONSOLATION. 211 

II. 

Now with gratitude Helen bowed low 
To the Author of life; and a reddening glow 
Tinged the gray of her eastern horizon, where hope 
Had been struggling so long and so hard to mount up 
And shed forth on existence its fresh, golden rays, 
To enli\-en, and l)righten. and gladden her days. 
Greater joy not old Sarah's breast swelled when she went 
To her God with the promised manchild to her sent, 
Than this furnace-tried, old-young heart tremblingly felt, 
When, with babe in her arms, a Madonna, she knelt 
Before Him who had led her along stony ways, 
Through dark, tortuous paths, and through long, sunless days, 

III. 
When a hero a victor}- winneth. exultant break forth 
Paeans, jubilant, loud, and resounding through earth. 
When bright genius achieveth success, cometh Fame, 
Pealing loudly her trumpet, and sounding its name 
For all nations and peoples. But when in the heart 
Is a triumph accomplished, no couriers start. 
Its great tidings to welcoming throngs to proclaim. 
To be hailed with rejoicings and roars of acclaim; 
And when motherhood wins over weariness long, 
Its rejoicings float forth on the bosom of song, — 
Not such song as through shouting throats loudly may flow, 
But the music of lullaby, tender and low. 
And this, then, was the melody, soft, sweet, and mild, 
Helen Rolfe sang in joy to her heart and her child: 



212 HELEN. 



Uullakj ©er)g. 

I. 
Pillow thy head upon mother's soft breast, 
Darling, in gentlest of slumber to rest. 
Listen to mother's songs, sung Inil for thee: 
Lullaln-! Fairies thy guardians be! 

II. 
Lullaby, precious one! Mother's quick ear 
Faintest of breathings of baby can hear; 
Mother can feel the dear little heart throb; 
Mother can catch the least slumbering sob. 

II. 
She in the dark sees the gleam of thine eyes; 
She through all noise hears thy faintest of sighs; 
She gets thy meaning by mother's own art — 
Rules of interpreting graved on her heart. 

IV. 

See! Baby's hand tries its mother's to clasp! 
Baby's wee fi.st her white bosom would grasp! 
Baby-strength wonderful! :Marvelous skill! 
Sways all the household, does baby's weak will! 

V. 

Lullaby, baby! Whatever betide. 

Murmur, and mother will be at thy side. 

INIother's heart's blood would be poured out for thee, 

Poured out like water, if need there should be. 

VI. 

Mother o'er baby each moment stands guard; 
O'er its each movement keeps fond watch and ward; 
Mother stands ready, when baby shall cry, 
Waiting to kiss the new tear from each eye. 

VII. 

Mother looks forward, with tremulous prayer, 
Forward to years with their burdens of care; 



COXSOLATIOX. 



:il3 



Sees with foreboding the fledgling soul 
Fly from the shelter of mother's control. 

VIII. 

And, as her broodings these shadowings bring 
Mother more closely to baby doth cling. 
Rest, while life's morn calls thee only to rest; 
Lullaby! Lullaby! Sleep on this breast! 



* 



IV. 



Pas.sed two seasons then by, with their light loads of care; 

(Loads the heaviest Helen had now strength to bear;) 

And the sunshine again through her heart's windows streamed, 

And her days with perennial interest teemed. 

Was she happy? If happiness highest consist, 

As some ethical reasoners strongl}- insist. 

In the constant employment of head and of heart, 

Then was Helen now thoroughly happy. Her part 

She was bravely performing as mother and wife, 

And for Richard distilling: the nectar of life. 




CANTO NINTH. 



1IEKOI.SM. 



I. 

Richard Rolfe was a man who, in war as in peace, 
Took the world at its best — made the most of life's lease. 
Never scorning promotion, no means he neglected 
Placing him in the way of such favors expected. 
With courage proved, which he was known to possess. 
He combined judgment, talent, tact, skill, and address; 
And, prompt ever at summons of duty, he bore 
A superb reputation in his army corps. 
And was toward its leadership pushing his way. 
When, in leading a charge, on one glory filled day, 
With a ball in his iM'east he rolled down from his horse. 
And awhile lay unhelped in the battle's wnld course. 
Till an officer, there passing with his command. 
Paused to aid him. 

II. 
" What! General Rolfe! O, my friend, 
How you bleed! Corporal! Lend me your haversack: 
Place it under his head. . . . Now, I'll try to keep back 
This swift rushing of blood, till a surgeon appears. 
Or the stretchers arrive. I have serious fears 
Of an artery severed: if these be well based. 
All depends on no time nor blood running to waste; 



IIKKOISM. 215 

And I'll sla}- here, e'en though I shall risk reprimand 
For neglecting my post; but the next in command 
Will be glad of the chance my battalion to take, 
And a record for bravery in my place to make." 

III. 
" 'Tis Mark Landis! Ood bless you ! Some water, please! . . . 

No, 
'Tis no artery severed that causes this flow, 
But a great minie-ball that came crashing in here. 
Near my lungs; yet I think it has closed my career. 
My poor Helen! God help her true heart bear the blow! 
O, my friend, I am grateful, in this hour, to know 
You are here, to bear her my last words, if I die. 
As I think I must." 

IV. 

" Dick! You must iiot ! If 'twere I, 
Little grief it would be; but your life must be saved 
For the country, for which death so often you've braved; 
But, still more, for the loved ones — your wife, and your cliild. 
Do not mo\-e, but lie lower! These bullets fly wild!" 

V. 
" Mark, you speak of the child, whom you never have seen. 
What a treasure and comfort to us has she been! 
She is so like her mother! 

" My God! It is hard 
To give up the world now, with my life so fair-starred!" 

VI. 

" You'll be saved! Onl}-, Dick, make no movement, by all 
You hold dear!" 

" You bleed too, Mark!" 

" 'Twas but a spent ball." 
" But your left arm hangs down: it is shattered, I fear!" 



-Ki HELEN. 

VII. 
" Nevermind that; thont;h bullets are plentiful here, 
I admit. But you've had, Dick, the bad luck to fall 
In a spot to cross-firing exposed. 

" Corporal, 
With \our bayonet and with ni\- sword let us try 
And a trench burrow, where my brave friend here ma>- lie 
Till the stretchers reach us, which in comin,2^ are slow. 
But the boys have their hands full to-day, I well know. 

. . . That's sufficient. Please help lift him into it 

Thanks! 
Now, my good Corporal, hasten back to the ranks, 
Aud get out of this rough, raking shot-hail alive. 
If 3'ou can. I'll return when relief shall arri\-e 
For my charge. . . . Do not wait, for each moment the fire 
Hotter grows ! ' ' 

VIII. 

It is dread of no death-missile dire 
Causes halting in ste])s of the Corporal, here. 
As he stands with an eye that knows nothing of fear. 

IX. 

" Major I Through these three blood-sprinkled years I have 

shared 
With yourself, at your side, all the dangers you'\-e dared; 
And shall I now desert my commander, my friend. 
In death's presence, and crawl where less dangers attend, 
Like a cow^ard? Ah, major! ask not this of me! 
Let me stay, and the brunt share, whatever it be!" 

X. 

Major Landis was moved as the valiant are moved. 
When the faith of kin s])irits through trial i^ proved. 





ijie staid poisiul for a moment, his pijc lustrovjs ijet ; 
@ne look tou;ard llie now mantling and purpling sunset. 



HEROISM. 210 

The emotions within him words failed to attest, 

And they only found \oice in the throbs of his breast. 

XI. 

Now, there came the sharp whiz of a rifle-ball by; 
A slight movement by Landis; a gleam of his eye; 
And his right arm fell helpless and limp at his side. 

XII. 

"You again hit! O, God!'' the brave Corporal cried. 
" Death come.s swiftly!" 

XIII. 

And scarcely was this sentence uttered. 
When this private hero some word barely muttered 
In faintness, which sounded like "mother"; and then 
Fell a corpse to the earth, with a ball through his brain. 

XIV. 

Standing there, undismayed, though with twin woundings 

maimed. 
With quick death on all sides, thus Mark Landis exclaimed: 
" O, great heart of true valor! Was ever, in days 
When fair chivalry ruled among men, and its lays 
Tuned the peoples to honor, such knightliness showai? 
Though your deeds shall ne'er echo in earthly renowm. 
Yet the angel who makes up the record above 
Your devotion will write with a pen dipped in love; 
And the sacrifice born in your true, loyal breast, 
Entrance for you shall gain wdiere the brave calmly rest. 
And your all-daring soul, though as scarlet your sins, 
With a regeneration baptismal shall cleanse." 

XV. 

Though with loss of blood weakened, and pale, yet Mark still 
Firmly stood, buttressed by his strong, resolute will — 



•<?■.'<! 



tiT':len'. 



Stood erect, as if ranged for parade or review; 

When a shrapnel-shcll fragment his shoulder crashed through. 

. . . He staid poised for a moment, his eye lustrous yet; 

One look toward the mantling- and purpling sunset; 

Then he fell as the stag of the forest may fall, 

When in swift career checked b}' the huntsman's sure l)all. 

XVI. 

. . . The sharp firing had slackened, though little was left 

To be hit; for Mark lyandis, of all strength bereft, 

Lay there prone on the ground, his two brave friends between; 

And the bleeding and dead formed a ghastly grim scene — 

Such a scene, as, alas, could too often be viewed 

Where war's Juggernaut made its dread progress in blood. 

Came the stretchers at last, after tiresome delay, 

And this trio of wounded and dead bore away: 

Two to struggle to keep still the bauble of life, 

And the one to rest peacefully after the strife. 




CANTO TENTH. 



TRIUMPH. 



I. 

When to Landis and Rolfe on the field relief came, 
Little heeded Mark whither they bore him. The name 
And directions Rolfe gave to the men were to him, 
In his weakness from bleeding, like dream- voices dim; 
And the first he knew clearly was when he awoke 
The next day, and glanced up, and encountered the look, 
Unimpassioned and calm, which, in twilight shades dun. 
Two short years now agone, he had thought but to shun. 

II. 
Side by side lay the heroes, on neighboring cots, 
As they lay on the field where blood mingled their lots. 
Side by side lay the patients; nor was it a nun 
Who attended them. Helen's nurse-work, though begun 
Upon him unto whom to herself she had vowed 
Heart and hand to yield up, ended not when she bowed 
To the yoke that stern conscience upon her imposed, 
Neither had it with advent of motherhood closed. 

III. 
The true woman, who, strong in a purpose sublime, 
Puts her hands to the plow, no impedings of time 
Nor of circumstance e'er can induce to look back. 
Though regret's phantom shadows be thrown on her track. 



222 



HELEN. 



She puts proud uian to scorn in her continent faitli, 
Which no perils, nor pangs, nor fierce testings can scath; 
She sets strong man at naught in intuitive sight, 
Catching ghmpses of dawn while he sees yet but night. 

IV. 

Side by side, there they lay, at her feet, at her will, 

At her beck, as meek children submissi\-e and still. 

Their strong bodies in utter subjection to her, 

As for years their strong hearts, without doubt ar demur. 

O, fair queen of two realms, that earth's barrier parts, 

At thy girdle hang keys of what grandly true liearts! 

And while on shall flow seasons, there never wnll be 

To unlock either one any duplicate kej-. 

Thou in both art, and still there wilt be, while the tides 

Come and go, while the firmament's star-wealth abides: 

Here, and yonder, where bridals and bindings are not. 

And where we as the angels shall be, without blot. 

Such are love's never-ceasing sweet miracles, wrought 

Still to-day as when through them the blest Master taught; 

And to-day doubters many lo\-e"s mission distrust. 

Till their hands into love's pierced side have been thrust. 

v. 
Calm, indeed, and with feeling unmoved, was the look 
That on Mark's surprised sight, when he wakened, thus broke 
From eyes which through stern trials a many had gone, 
And the strength that in trial lies duly had drawn; 
But to this strength there came the assistance of prayer, 
Firm resolve, and a nerve that all perils could dare, 
When occasion such daring demanded. 

Yet these 
Kot alone formed the brave Helen's strong- "-uarantees. 



TKirMI'H. 223 

There was one tliiiii;- resolve to sustain, if all, all 
Else had failed. This one thing was that which, since the fall 
In the Garden, a woman has lieen deemed unable to keep 
From her husband — a secret. 

Howe'er sore and tleep 
Were her trials and heart-complications between 
Rolfe and Landis, no word to the former had been, 
In the moments of confidence closest, revealed, 
Of the one secret treasure her heart had concealed. 

VI, 

Now, for this, who shall stand forth with stones to l)e hurled 
At poor Helen? If one without sin in the world 
Can be found, let such one the first stone at her cast, 
Else, forgiven, shall this her transgression be passed. 

VII. 

Robert Burns,— and forever, while throb human breasts, 
While bloom freshly the braes where he peacefully rests, 
And through emerald banks flows loved Ayr to the sea, 
Shall his memory fragrant and benisoned be, — 
Gave to one of the friends he held dear this advice. 
Which will surel}^ pass current where wisdom hath price: 
That in heart-confidence one should " keep something still 
To one's self, one would scarcely to any one tell." 
I could wish that the charmed Rh3-mer Robin had added 
This thought-filament through the same needle threaded: 
One should leave something still in heart-searching unasked; 
Should in some points the confidence leave still untasked. 
Were these principles followed, in life and in lo\e, 
What strong factors of harmou)- would they not pro\-e! 

VIII. 
Ah, good husband, that last query, useless, unkind. 
With wliicli you, with persistency foolish and blind. 



224 in:i,i;N. 

Still kfj)! t()uchin,>; the (iiiick of }(nir wile's nettled heart, 

Was the i)iie which has likely ndui' souls torn apart, 

Ne'er again to be joined in the durance of years. 

And what good has it done you? You've learned where with 

tears 
The lone grave of a long buried love was bedewed — 
Where the youth-planted j-ew has in shaded vale stood. 
Do you not some such grave in >(nir own breast conceal, 
Which 'twere wrenching your heart to be forced to reveal? 

O, fond wife, let that question die out on your lips; 

For it may bring to love's light a death-dark eclipse. 

It ma}^ gain you the knowledge that somev.diere a heart 

Treads regret's weedy path, in which Iw once had part. 

Will this shed through your darkened heart gladdening ra^'S? 

Will this sweeten your home, or make joyous your days? 

X 

Though in no way (as frequently shown heretofore) 

A philosopher, Rolfe had a usable store 

Of world-wisdom, which stood him in excellent stead, 

And kept healthy his heart, and well balanced his head. 

In his love he went never the record beyond; 

(A phrase, this, of which lawyers and statesmen are fond, 

And not very poetic, but just what I need 

To describe this true man, whose each thought was a deed, 

And who into a faith life's realities wrought, 

That was with the tense soul of earth's earnestness fraught;) 

Helen's heart he had never with })robe burrowed round 

After some foreign substance which might there be found; 

But such love as she gave him he gratefully took, 

And it gilded his days, and red-lined his life-book. 



TRIUMPH. -^-^o 

XI. 

Helen saw with distinctness the issue before her, 

And the pride of resolve in great spirits came o'er her. 

Her husband must see not one quaver in her; 

Not a muscle must change, no emotion must stir; 

And withal must she never in gentleness lack 

To the guest-patient there. On no nun's patient back 

Could she place the hard burden. 

For Richard had said, 
When brought back to htr, mangled and bleeding, and laid 
Side by side with Mark Landis: 

" His case, dear, demands 
Care and nursing from you. Only 3'our tender hands 
Should dress wounds that were taken to shield me from death. 
Do I ask too much, darling?" he added, his breath 
Faint and weak. " If of stranger-help need there shall be, 
Let me beg that it shall be bestowed upon me. 

XII. 

" Could your hovering spirit a witness have been 

Of that wildly terrific and ghastly grand scene. 

Where with bared brow my friend, my protector, stood, 

crowned 
With the smile of a martyr for sacrifice bound, 
Such as that with which heroes unflinchingly meet 
The dark frownings of fate and its summonings greet. 
Shielding me with his form from the hot leaden rain, 
This my urging were needless for him to obtain 
At your hands but such nursing as woman bestows 
On her own when her heart with love's tenderness glows. 
'Twas no marvel that one of his men, true to him 
As he to his ideal of courage supreme, 



■2"^f> HELKX. 

With an ardor infectious and dauntlessness fired, 
Nerved as noble despair nerves the brave, and inspired 
By the cahuness with which death's own front he defied, 
Pleaded hard for permission to die at his side. 
And for Mark and for me poured his purple life there. 
Freely, gently, as maiden to Heaven her prayer." 

XIII. 

It was thus that the husband the wife had besought 
On behalf of the friend. 

Then the swift-sweeping thought 
Had at first touched her mind, in confession to fall 
On her knees before Richard, and tell to him all; 
And the cowardly ghosts of suggestion athwart 
Her soul's pathway had flitted, and shrieked to her heart: 
" Seek not thou to comply with thy husband's request! 
Venture not to nurse here this so dangerous guest! 
Him near have not! Thou dar'st not! Thou'lt shrink! 

Thou wilt fail! 
Try it not! Tempt not fate! In the test thou wilt quail; 
And far worse thus to fail than just now to retreat, 
And cast jewels withheld at thy lord's loyal feet!" 

XIV. 

And 'twas something of that courage Mark had displayed 
On her spirit had seized; for, unswerved, undismayed, 
She had risen, while round her wreathed smile passing fair, 
Like the aureole calendared .saints only wear, 
Beating back the dark demons of fear into shade, 
And, with look sadly sweet yet firm purposed, had said: 
"Yes, my husband, your wish I will meet, and our friend 
With a sisterly care I will nurse, I will tend." 



TRIITMPH. 227 

XV. 

Hungry, ravenous, savage, the tiger of war 

Two of God's images to deface and to mar 

Had done all that it could; it had torn, it had crashed, 

It had bitten, and battered, and shattered, and mashed. 

Hands and knives of skilled surgeons long busy were kept, 

Cleaning up where the besom of battle had swept; 

And when they in the work had performed their due share, 

Helen Rolfe took the patched-up frames into her care. 

And poured balm on the gashes the tiger-teeth made, 

Into life nursing powers that prostrate were laid. 

XVI. 

It was hard, heav}', nerve-trying, heart-wearing work. 

Though for never a moment came temptings to shirk; 

For 'twas something apart from, beyond, and above 

What we mortals are wont to pronounce earthly love, 

That gave strength to her hands, and a deft lightr.ess lent 

To the touch of her fingers, as gently she bent 

O'er the wounds, handling tenderly bandage and splint. 

Plying lotion and liniment, linen and lint. 

Yet her two subject-patients she ruled rigidly. 

And was firm, as a faithful nurse ever should be. 

Little time did she ha\-e sympathy to display: 

Deeds to do came more swiftly than words came to say. 

xvii. 
Of the wound of the General there was grave doubt. 
Closely nestled the ball next the lungs. " Cut it out?" 
To Rolfe thus said the surgeon; " nol If you would see 
Any more of earth's days, ask it not. It would be 
Such a blow at life's resonant organ to deal, 
As its valves in eteruitv's silence would seal." 



'■228 HELEN. 

Ami, as inii;ht deadly, vciionious serpent lie coiled, 
Still, l)ut ready to spring, in the lap of a child, 
There the missile yet stayed, holding^ ever the key, 
As death-guest, to the chamber of life's mystery. 

XVIII. 

INIajor Landis's case was more serious still. 

And presented a problem for surgical skill. 

For some days it was questionable whether Mark 

Could survive the blood-loss, and the prospect was dark 

That the life so oft periled would be any more 

By time's current borne into the hazard of war. 

XIX. 

" A remarkably phased constitution is his. 

Upon sounding his lungs, I'm convinced that it is 

A clear case of tubercular phthisis that we 

Have before us to deal with, when we shall be free 

From the grave complications the fractures have caused; 

Thus one ill on another is superimposed, 

Rendering the conditions unfavoring," said. 

With oracular voicing, a surgeon, whose head. 

Though of solid professional learning as full 

As a chestnut of meat, yet small knack had to cull 

From life's facts differential the knowledge they speak, 

And, by gauging that knowledge by science, to seek 

Where lies wisdom the golden, whose secrets consist 

But in fitting conclusions to facts that exist, 

(In the place of adapting facts so as to suit 

Coined conclusions,) and showing, as logic's ripe fruit. 

The relations all facts to their basic truths bear. 



TRIUMPH. ;i; 

XX. 

This philosophy, clear as the azure of air, 

Was beyond this sage scalpel-man's mental purview; 

For he never the truth from its well-bottom drew. 

He had ever with facts stopped, w^hich, fitting his thesis, 

Snsceptil)le were of a kin exegesis; 

While facts at him staring in broadest daylight. 

Scintillating with rays as the diamond bright, 

Which with preconceived views of his tallied not well, 

Which a totally different tale had to tell, 

And with ad\-erse significance all over bristled, — 

Such facts he passed b}', or else down the wind whistled; — 

An ancient, approved, usage-worn, custom-gra^-, 

Strictly orthodox, highly professional way! 

XXI. 

There were lactors of life in Mark's system, whose signs 
Were as clear and distinct, if but heeded, as lines 
Demarkation that show 'twixtthe land and the sea; 
But to heed them would ultra-professional be, 
And the}' hence were as stoutly ignored as by prude 
Might be statues that border too much on the nude. 

XXII. 

Other surgeons came, who by the first dictum stood, 
That the wounds were too deep, and too thin was the blood; 
And thus, having decreed Major Landis to lack 
Constitutional strength nature's efforts to back, — 
Decreed facts in the line of tJieir theses to lie, — 
These wise judges of science condemned him to die. 
And apportioned his share in days earthly as small; 
And so notified Helen. 



^oU 



h);li:x, 



XXIII. 

And llicn fell a pall 
On her spirit. She shrank 'neath the blow, and bent down- 
Bent to earth. 

It had come, the designed, thorned crown I 
The dense shadows were round her; dismay hekl control: 
And ( rethsemane's passion swept over lier soul. 

XXIV. 

Then from out of the depths she sent forth such a prater 
As comes only from hearts with great crosses to liear: 

x.xv. 
" Thou who once hast all bidden to come unto Thee 
That heart- weary and heavily earth-laden be; 
Thou who once in the dust, on the way to dark death. 
Hast thy cross borne in weakness and languor of breath: 
O, Redeemer all-merciful, hear Thou the plaint, 
And draw near to the aid, of one weary and faint I 
For without Thee she cannot her heart-burden bear, 
And without Thee she trembles and sinks in despair! 
O, true heart of Immanuel, pierced for our sake, 
This great life in the shadows do not Thou now take! 
Grant Thou unto thy handmaiden, Master adored, 
Her request: .spare this soul, Galilee's risen lyord!" 

XXVI. 

Prayer, as ever, gave strength; and from under the cloud 
Came grace, patience annealing, and lightened her load. 
And 'twMS helpful to her that she now could kneel there, 
By her husband's bedside, and pour out earnest j^raycr 
For both husband and friend. 

XXVII. 

She said nothing to Mark 
Of the ]>rospect the surgeons had painted so dark, 



TKir.MPH. 331 

And their adverse decree; but she whispered it low 
To her husband, who said: 

" Still, as oft as you go 
To the Throne, take his case, dear; and this will do more 
Than can surgical skill, or can medical lore: 
Take it thither, and well I know you'll gain the day: 
For all Heaven must listen when saints like you pray." 

XXVIII. 

Not as lightl}' did Landis relinquish his hold 
Upon life, as the surgeons had darkly foretold. 
He tenaciously clung to the weak remnant left, 
Though apparently of all defined hope bereft, — 
Clung as closely, and seemed as reluctant to yield 
To the conqueror pale, as on yonder red field 
He was ready and willing to give himself o'er 
To that conqueror, waiting 'mid battle's wild roar. 

XXIX. 

Was it Helen's sweet prayers that were keeping aglow 

Still the embers of being, now burning so low? 

Was it her interceding with merciful Heaven 

In the strength of grace ever to gentleness given? 

I myself think it was; and I care not to know 

If far up to the Throne those prayers first had to go, 

And in answer the blessing rode down on the air; 

Or if, heard when thus murmured so near to Mark there. 

Their strong influence wrought was direct, as it went 

From one soul to the other in that silent tent. 

The effect were the same, and the work were the same: 

'Twere all wrought in one spirit, all gained in one Name; 

And though hard be to mortals thus tracing the line 

That prayer takes or prayer draws, its cour.se still is divine^ 



CANTO ELEVENTH. 



RECON'CILEMEXT 



I. 

Into Laiidis's blood-courses entered, at length, 
Some infusion of warmth; then slight stirring of strength 
Brought some tinge to the cheek, some relief to the l)reast; 
And hope whispered to faith that the crisis had passed. 

II. 
" Crodbe prai.sed, my dear fellow!" said Rolfe; 'you will live! 
■Helen's prayers, they have saved you: to her credit give, 
Not at all to the doctors, who, having predicted 
Your death, will grieve sorely to l^e contradicted 
B}' fate and bj^ woman. Again do I sa}-, 
Give to her the glad glory that you live to-day!" 
But ere this speech was done, slumber, heralding health 
Of Mark's senses the mastery compassed in' stealth. 

III. 
— " Unto God give all glory, and none unto man!" 
Accents chiding thus through the tent's soft silence ran 
Richard turned on his cot, and before him there stcxxl, 
In the beauty of tenderness. Sister Gertrude. 
Not unwelcome, though strange, was to him that white lace. 
Where pain tented, such faces were ne'er out t)f place. 

IV. 

" Sister, thanks! The rebuke I in meekness receive. 
But through her I must worship; through her I believe. 



RKCON'cii.i;:\iiv\T. 'Zdiy 

Scant religion liave 1; and l)e- not too severe, 
If a saint I like yon choose, although mine be here, 
Yours up yonder, to pray for me at the White Throne, 
Whither I have not courage to venture alone." 

V. 
" And this reverenced saint, of so rare, precious worth, 
Whom you've chosen to bear your petitions from earth," 
Said the nun, with a mild and compassionate smile, 
"Is—"' 

" My wife!" prompted Richard; " the one free from guile 
Of all beings I know, unless 1 should except 
Yonder friend, (o'er whose radiant face has now crept. 
As you see, the soft impress of sleep, j whom my wife. 
Through her ])rayers, has called back to the sweetness of life." 

VI. 

Entered Helen now, holding her child by the hand; 
And at sight of the nun her bright features were spanned 
With a tender alarm; but a cognizant glance 
From the latter allayed her disturbed countenance. 
Two fresh, fragrant bouquets, culled of blooms growing wild. 
Were borne, one by the mother, and one by the child; 
And the former was placed by the husband's cotside, 
While, in fullness of childhood's new blossoming pride, 
The young queen placed the latter by I^andis's cot, — 
Tributes which were each day to these invalids brought. 

VII. 

" I have come," said the Sister, " to render my aid 

Where the work of my weak hands can useful be made. 

My dear Madam, though smiles your fair, winsome face wears. 

It would seem, with your wearisome burden of cares. 

That your spirit, or frame, must be ready to break. 

You must let me assist \o\\. You must let me take 



230 



hi:i.i:n. 



An old patient back nndcr ni\- charge, wlioni I see 
Sleeping here j-our good hnsljand beside. It will be 
A relief that \-()n snrely mnst need." 

She had said 
But the truth: Helen's load on her sorely had weighed. 

VIII. 

Blessed nunl Helen felt she could fall to the ground, 
And the hem of her robe kiss, as Mercy's queen crowned. 
And to Him who help giveth in time of heart-need 
She ga\-e thanks for this aidance, wherein she could read 
A clear Providence. 

IX. 

Wondrous the strength of belief 
In a Providence special' Care, fear, trouble, grief, 
Trial, doubt, and temptation — it concpiers them all! 
Wh}', ye skeptics, ye new-lights, plot 3-e for its fall? 
Bruise it not! break it not! cloud it not! curse it not! 
To weak mortals all countless the boons it hath brought: 
With fine gold hath it gilded the framework of life; 
Kindly truce hath it sounded full oft in heart-strife; 
It hath purpled the sunset of many a jo\-: 
Shining worth hath it found in a deal of allo\-; 
In dense darkness of dread despair's night hath it shown 
Unto myriad souls where appeareth the dawn. 
O, ye vengeful iconoclasts, can >e not spare 
This one faith-symbol standing since Eden bloomed fair? 
Ye agnostics! Yourselves build on bases of sand. 
Styling what ye ])uild truth, and think that is to stand 
When the things XQ ra/.e shall in oblivion be. 
Ye as well su])reme truth through a glass darkly see! 
Ere ye ask us to heed your new ethics, show where. 
Clear of cloud, clear of mist, of all earth-shadows clear, 



RECONCII.K.MKXT. 237 

Your bright sun of pure truth in strength radiant stands, 
Giving Hght to the peoples and warmth to the lands! 
O, empirics! Ye can not! Your sun is a cheat! 
It is darkened all over with doubt; sheds no heat, 
And no light, and no life! 

We will wait, we will stand 
'Xeath the old, till truth's new sun its rays shall expand. 
The old may prove a myth in the far-removed end; 
But 3et better a myth in jvhose phases there blend 
Heat, and color, and brightness, and gladness, than one 
Cold, and soulless, and rayless, and naked, and lone. 
Standing desert and drear in the bleak universe, 
Like a banned spirit, like an inherited curse ! 

X. 

. . . Mark of Richard permission, through urgency, gained, 
To be freed from his so gentle durance. 

" Old friend," 
He said, holding Rolfe's hand, while his voice nearly failed 
With his heart-deep emotion; " your tent has availed, 
Though so small its extent, full as well to show forth 
Worth chivalric, as could proudest palace of earth. 
Royal guest at an emperor's court had I been. 
Entertainment more princely I could not have seen. 
And of 5'ou, and of Helen, [this was the first time 
He had called her by that cherished name since the thyme 
Had no longer grown in the parterre of his heart,] 
And of this flower-girl, (pardon tears that will start,) 
I shall treasure such dear recollections as will. 
In all paths of existence, abide with me still. 
And as comfort and help to me evermore .serve, 
WHiatsoever the lot for me fate shall reserve." 



238 HELEN. 

XI. 
Helen then shed an honest tear — one that fell down 
On the face of her husband, and met there no frown. 
And the}' bade him — the husband, the child, and the wife — 
A united good-bye, whose tones rang through his life. 

XII. 

... A constrained happiness had been Mark's, while he lay 

'Neath the care of the being wdio gladdened the da}- 

And illumined the night; and emotiojis, subdued. 

Of profound, fervent, manly, un\-oiced gratitude 

Filled his breast, — gratitude to his God, who had brought 

To his soul this dear season, so sacred, unsought, 

Of peace, rest, and heart-healing; and likewise to her — 

To her, now thrice the saint in his heart's calendar — 

Who, through wise and true womanhood, grandly displa\-ed, 

Had what once seemed impossible possible made, 

So that safely his heart had the ordeal borne. 

And had come thence unscorched, and vinscarred, and untorn. 

In this harborage brief, in this refuge of rest. 

He had been to the depths of his whole being blessed. 

XIII. 

. . . Convalescence beneath the kind care of the nun 
Was so swift, that her sway but brief tenure had run. 
When once more on his feet Mark stood, read}' again 
To face danger or death on the battle's red plain. 

XI\'. 

He now realized such reconcilement to fate 
As he had not yet felt; and he opened the gate 
That again led out into the pulsating world, 
And the banner of life's struggle newly unfurled. 
With a heart fresher, stronger, and warmer than when, 
Years agone, it had bowed — ah! so low it bowed then! 



RKCOXCILEMENT. 

He heard hum the hive human; he breathed the fresh air; 
He looked out on the earth, and it seemed to him fair. 



239 



XV. 

Major Landis had found, when reporting himself 

At headquarters for duty, two rolls on a shelf 

In the commandant's office for him; and he thought 

They might be wretched cuts of the last battle fought; 

Or sad caricatures of the patriot dead, 

(At a cent dear, but sold for a dollar a head;) 

Or low-browed, beery-looking presentments of saints, 

To adorn and enliven lone barracks and tents; 

Or illustrated lessons of national faith. 

In blear chromos whose publishers merited death; 

Or perhaps specimen phrenological charts; 

Or some other of those multifarious arts 

And devices whereby the poor soldiers were robbed; 

And had still let them lie; when he heard himself dubbed 

" Colonel Landis." 

XVI. 

Saluting the new commandant, 
Mark corrected him, saying: 

' ' A fine compliment 
You pay me through mistake. I'm but Major thus far." 

XVII. 

" I beg pardon," the General said; " but a star. 

Instead of either eagle or leaf, you will wear. 

Two commissions have been for some time lying there. 



240 



heij-:n. 



Ocneral; and llic lliird comes to-day. You'll report 
For assit^nnienl. Voun,u' man, \()u lia\e strong friends at 
court." 

will. 
" r\-e no friends who would interest thus take in me," 
Mark re])lied, " sa\-e it be our division commander, and he — " 

XIX. 

" He's enough; for his influence carries, of course, 
That, not small, of his beautiful wife, the sweet nurse." 




..u-lSJinjJi) 



CANTO TWELFTH. 



AU RE VOIR. 



I, 

Richard Rolfe gained but slowly. The strong spirit, bright, 
Cheerful, patient at first, chafed as hope's doubtful light, 
Though yet giving no signs of extinction, grew dull; 
And as weU heart as hand of poor Helen was full. 

II. 
One calm day, when, his world-lighting labor all done. 
To his rest iu his gold-curtained bed sank the sun, 
Helen thus said to Richard, when into his face 
She had gazed long and earnestly, seeking to trace, 
Though in vain, some faint token of health in his eyes. 
Some dim signals of strength that hope might recognize: 

III. 
" O, my husband, if you would but let me suggest. 
What to do with- this body of yours, which no rest 
And no healing obtains in this wearisome camp. 
Where the reveille drum and the sentinel's tramp 
Are the sounds that incessantly fall on your ear. 
With the clangor and terrors of war ever near; 
If you will l)ut deliver yourself unto me, 
And with this wasted frame give me all libert}-, 
I will take it up gently, and bear it away, 
To a Southland — not ours, but far yonder, where lay 
The world's middle-age glories when chivalry thrived, 
Whose true spirit in you has so nobly survived. 



IV. 

" Wc will go to the fair land of Provence, where once 

I was ready my own native land to renounce 

F'or the peace which that charmed reahii presented; and there 

I will gather for you the old chronicles rare, 

And the tales of romance that in folk-legends live; 

And all these into song for m>- hnsl)and I'll weave: 

Then I'll sing them to him, lying by the warm sea; 

And I'll win his applause, which will dear be to me. 

V. 
The ripe grapes we will pluck where they burden the \-ine; 
And your blood we will warm with rich, redolent wine, 
Such as that which in Cana a God-guest once made, 
And baptized with his blessing. The olive trees' shade 
Shall refresh us; their fruit, and the fig, and the date. 
Your life-currents shall (piicken and in\igorate. 

VI. 

" And thus lingering there, while the days past us run, 
Fanned by airs that blow softly from lands of the sun, 
And not counting the hours nor the weeks that go 1)\-, 
Time begin but to reckon when gleams in yoiu' eye 
Light of health and of strength. Until then we'll forget 
That earth aught hath o'er which care to borrow or fret. 
We will sit and watch sunsets and dawns come and go. 
And a dream-life that no interruption shall know 
We will live, with no one sa\-e ourselves and our child 
To regard. 

VII. 

" And when Heaven once more shall have smiled 
On my husband, my Richard of lionlike heart, 
And his arm given strength, then again his old part 




Hp said, " 1 u;ill gu 
To the earth's farthest boniuls, if it be but ivitb ijou. 



AU RKVOTR. 2-J.5 

And old place in the conflict of life he shall takt, 
And come back where the world is alive and awake. 
For my lion-heart should not a love captive pine 
While his arm could swing weapon in battle's drawn line. 
. . . What response has my husband to this wifely plan? 
Will he yield himself up? Will he go?" 

VIII. 

. . . Pale and wan, 
Lying there, he had listened to her, while a light, 
Such as love ever keeps, e'en in death's gloaming, bright, 
Reillumined his eyes, and he said: 

" I will go 
To the earth's farthest bounds, if it be but with you. 
Take me unto you; carry me whither you will: 
Only send me not from you; remain with me still; 
vStill be near me, and do with me what shall seem best; 
I but ask you to give me your presence, and rest." 



IX. 

Bon voyage! Lightly blow o'er the main, swelling gales! 
Gently rock, ocean billows, the ship, as it sails 
From the shore where the lusty young child of the Now 
vStands with ej'es looking Westward and star-adorned brow, 
To the strand where sits dreaming the gray-bearded Then, 
Looking Eastward for days that come never again. 
Breath of balm from all spice-isles that dot the far seas 
O'er the deck be soft wafted on wings of each breeze! 



i4(; 



Hi:i.KN. 



X. 

Bo)i rctour! May the gentle skies hovering o'er 

These heart-worn voyageitrs, on yon far. storied shore, 

Break with never a storm that shall damage or scath, 

Till, heart-freshened, they start on their glad homeward jxith; 

And then back to the land that lies fair in the West 

May they come bearing profit-sheaves — come, spirit-blest! 




PART THIRD 



rRaiTioN 



CANTO FIRST, 



PEACE. 



I. 

Back from roaring- of cannon and rolling of drnm, 
To his home on the prairie Mark Landis had come: 
And he stood at his gate, and gazed over his farm, 
And contrasted its calm with war's ceaseless alarm. 
He vSaw each growing thing .springing forth as of old; 
Saw the wheat tnrning swiftly from green into gold: 
Saw the corn in ranks marshaled as grandly as men. 
Glad to be of snch ranks in command once again: 
Smelt the scent of the sweet prairie hay, newly mown. 
From the field l^y the sw^eating, niild-e3-ed oxen drawn: 
Saw in pasture the kine, in whose lowing he heard 
Hymnal praise of blest creatures, with gratitude stirred: 
Saw all nature instinct with life, thrift, and increase; 
And then looked up to Heaven and thanked God for peace. 

II. 
lyCt the muse turn aside from the thread of the tale. 
For a moment on peace and its profits to dw^ell. 
Of the glories of war bards unnumbered have sung. 
And their strains through each vale of our loved land have 

rung: 
While divines vie with orators, fierj'-browed Mars 
In renown to keep foremast among gods and stars. 
Small inducement this leaves for him wdio of sweet peace 
Would fain sing, 'gainst the tide of the people's caprice. 



2-i^ HELKN. 

III. 

Ye who cherish that true lo\-e of country which springs 

From firm faitli in a future that righteousness brings — 

In a future that must in its spirit lift up 

The Republic, and make it a beacon of hope 

To the lands in autocracy's darkness that sit. 

And of liberty see but the dull silhouette, — 

To your patriot hearts I make earnest appeal 

In behalf of a cause which of right claims your zeal. 

IV. 
If refinement the outlay repay spent to gain 
Its effulgent effect on humanity's l)rain; 
If prosperity yield stich rewards as to give 
Recompense for the struggle it costs to achieve; 
If domestic security bring a return 
Justifying all efforts this blessing to earn: 
If possessions like these make communities great, 
Let us plant them with care in the soil of the state, 
And not let them be choked with vile demagogue- weeds, 
Nor with thistles upsprung from war's tempest-blown seeds. 

v. 
Would you see your great ships in pride ploughing the main, 
To earth's marts afar bearing your goods or your grain? 
Would you still keep the factory turning the wheel. 
With its populous hive, for the land working weal? 
Would you keep in the forges the fires still aglow, 
Where the work of a myriad Vulcans they do? 
Woi;ld you speed the plow bringing to blossom the fields, 
Whose soil fertile grain golden witlyiiagic strength yields? — 
Then for peace be your words, fellow-countrymen mine, 
And give efforts and prayers for its blessings benign. 



PEACE. 



249 



VI. 

And, O, servant elect of the mild Prince of Peace, 

Of ensanguined haranguings grant us a surcease! 

Mingle not with the tidings in Galilee told 

The red talk of the foray; the ears of your fold 

Feed no longer with tales of the barracks; but strike, 

Let me plead with you, some higher key — something like 

That the Master struck when his entrancing notes thrilled 

Human hearts with new love and their wild tumults stilled. 

Tell again, and again, and again, the old tale 

Of the cross and the crown — that will never grow stale; 

But relieve us from preachments that breed in the heart 

Passions forming of Christliness never a part! 

VII. 

. . .How sw^eet once more was work! Of the plow Mark 

grasped hold, 
As of hands of some friend of the dear days of old; 
And the fork, and the rake, and the hoe, and the spade, 
Charm magnetic had when his hands on them were laid. 
And he breathed the fresh breath of his oxen and cows. 
And the perfume of health of his stacks and his mows; 
And his frame felt new vigor in every part. 
While his blood sent new strength to his swift throbl)ing heart. 

vni. 
True, his colts and his calves had away from him grown. 
As life's duties severe they had entered upon; 
And these old pets surveyed him wath grave, mature eyes, 
Which said: " Friend, the fond past far behind us now lies; 
And caresses of yesterday- 's golden-eyed morn 
Have no place in to-day's actualities stern." 
Old acquaintanceships had to be formed thus anew, 
(Something with human creatures we've often to do;) 



^OO HICI.KN. 

PjuI iiL-w pets came to take places left 1)\- the old, 
And these always were waitiiij^- in e\-er}- fold. 

IX. 

Of his bay beauties, one had been under him shot, 
When a ball scarred his brow, in the last battle fought, 
And the other with honor retired on full pay, 
F'or brave services rendered in love's tender day. 

X. 

Strength electric from handling his horses he drew, 

A constituent part of their daily life grew. 

And the sentiment from their companionship caught 

With which Israel's prophets' sublime strains are fraught, 

That the horse, as a creature, is so near divine 

As to miss but b\- language the reasoning line. 

XI. 

His hands deeply he thrust into Nature's great breast. 

And therefrom drew the secrets the dame closely pressed; 

And he learned what a prodigal mother she was 

To him when he but halfway regarded her laws: 

Learned that whether the harvest fields laugh or they weep. 

Depends greatly on faith that with Nature we keep; 

Learned that earth grows faint, hungry, and famished, like 

men. 
And, lier hunger appeased, glows with vigor again ; 
Learned that earth becomes easil}' jealous; craves care, 
Such as woman craves; pouts if she has not her share; 
But that when such fond care is upon her bestowed. 
She a synon^ni is of supreme gratitude, 
And with more than the measure we mete out to her 
Yields she when we the springs of her gratitude stir. 



PEACK. 251 

XII. 

Through life's variant trials of head and of heart 

As our progress we make, of our time no small part 

Is devoted to burying dreams that are dead, 

Which, alive, on the heart's strongest tissues were fed ; 

And we lay them away in the earth's peaceful breast, 

Where, 'neath daisies we've tenderly planted, they rest. 

XIII. 

Mark had buried the dreams of his youth in the soil 
Of the farm that had blossomed beneath his hard toil; 
And he stood in reality's sunshine, awake 
To all influences that life practical make. 
Thus existence subjective to him ceased to be, 
And objective became to a tensive degree ; 
While, a tenant content of the present, he paid 
Unto Caesar the just tribute due him, and made 
All things round him conform to his real-life code ; 
So no ghosts of dead days round his premises strode. 

XIV. 

Among other dreams he had thus sepultured, lay 
That of art. From the soul dulling moil of to-daj^ 
The ideals of his yesterdays tremblingly shrank, 
And, crushed under the heels of utility, sank. 
Thus the echoes that through all the years had been borne 
Of the old Doctor's dictum in life's clouded morn — 
Echoes sacred to Mark since that gray, revered head 
On the fresh field of fight had lain low with the dead — 
These, together with his strangelj' forced quest for pelf, 
Let his once so loved palette still mould on the shelf. 
He seemed grimlj' determined to finish the task 
Broken off by the war — seemed resolved not to l^ask 



■*5a 



hf;lkn. 



In the light of the once so loved Beautifnl, till 

He had bronght all his efforts and strength to fulfill 

What now shaped itself into a duty; and so 

Idly ran on the years, while the ebl) and the flow 

Of life's tide no event signalized which betrayed 

That for him human happenings one issue made 

Higher than those they make for the dull-witted clod 

Whose thoughts spring in and mingle with his native sod. 

XV. 

This the phase Mark's course showed in the word's daily strife. 
Was it all that was left of his once 3-earning life? 
Were there no cords remaining, which, struck tenderly, 
Would resound with the music that once used to be? 
If there were, in abeyance so closely they lay. 
That they ne\-er were heard in the blare of the day. 

XVI. 

If, perchance, in the soft hush of night, there were strains 
Ringing through his heart's halls, whose rekindling refrains 
Thrilled his being, and for a duration brief warmed 
Into life the sweet influences that once formed 
The aurora of tenderer sea.sons, occult were the>- kei)t, 
And in whisperings low through his soul-chambers swept, 
Fleeing swiftly when showed the first flush of the dawn. 
To earth's interests beckonins: him sternlv on. 



CANTO SECOND. 



POLITICS. 



I. 

There was one trait in Mark, truth compels me to say, 

Which was not at all in the American way, 

And betrayed a sad lack of the patriot fire 

Which within the Columbian breast feeds desire 

For political honor and profit. With youth. 

And with spirit, and pn'sf/o-c\ and pride, in good sooth 

It was strange that he no an-octhcs should have 

For disporting upon the political wave. 

Though endowed not, like Rolfe, with the qualities true 

To win over hoi polloi, in some points of view 

He attracted the favor of leaders who " stood 

On the battlements guarding the commonwealth's good," 

(Which means keeping unbroken one's own party lines, 

And defeating the oppo.site party's designs.) 

He was yoiing, he had fought for his country, and l)led, 

And had no party record which over his head 

Could be brandished in case of the u.se of his name 

As a torch to light others to partisan fame. 

II. 
A political canvass was just taking form. 
And the campaigning glow was beginning to warm 
The old veterans who at the office crib fed, 
And to party devoted hands, lungs, heart, and head. 



254 HELEN. 

III. 
As Mark sat on his porch, on a dull afternoon, 
While the drowsy air seemed with the warblers in tune, 
That were lazily singing- their songs in the boughs 
Of the trees he had i)lanted in life's pregnant pause, 
A committee presented themselves at the farm, 
In such force as to bring to his breast some alarm, 
Were it not for the fact that no weapons they bore. 
Save their walking sticks, and that each face a smile wore. 
. . . He arose to receive them, with deference due, 
Having no premonition of what was in view. 

IV. 

The committee were chosen with care from among 
The choice spirits the party contained. Part were young, 
With the sap of life's spring flowing fresh through their veins; 
Part were old, with experience's furrows and stains 
On their weather-worn features and forms; but each one 
Was a true representative of the liaut ton 
Of the party in Mark's 1)ailiwick ; and the whole. 
When assembled together, accordant in soul, 
And in purpose and action, presented a front 
Of political influence he was not wont 
To encounter in his retired sphere. 

v. 

Leading on 

This legation so truly imposing, was one. 

Mellow-ripe as to years, full of stomach, with eyes 

Round and owl-like, which looked preterhumanly wise, 

As across the broad bridge of a huge, pulpy nose 

They glanced out o'er the public, for whose good to pose 

Was the life-occupation of this man of note, 

Whose red face, heavv chin, spacious cheek, and craned throat 




^ 


^ 




J 






<i 


L. 






-^ 


>c 


r 


_> 






o 


^3 


^ 


_ 


C3 


tJ 




o 






rH 


o 




-*-^ 




« 






35 




«t 


a 


J' 


S5 


_ 


^^ 






13 




%-. 




0} 


, : 


C 


-3 


« 




dJ E-t 



POLITICS. 257 

Showed capacity ample to jealoiish' guard 

The dear people's preserves — for a proper reward. 

VI. 

The committee had chosen this man as their chairman, 

Because he stood high as a partisan " square" man; 

The " straight ticket" voting; at polls watching ever; 

In heat or cold, earh^ or late, tiring never; 

The old party loving, year in and year out; 

Never harboring scruple; o'ercast by no doubt; 

Never known in all years to be absent from caucus; 

Predicting great triumphs, like salty old Glaucus. 

. . . This Chairman the following speech made to Landis, 

Which '■ from our reporter's notes" faithfully penned is: 

VII. 

"General, say! The boys hev ben thinkin', right smart. 

That yer name to our deestrick would give a fresh start. 

Which it needs. We're agoin' to run ye fur office! 

We'll put ye through on yer war record. The trophies 

Of battle we'll show, an' yer .scars. That thar 

On the side o' yer face, nigh 3-er temple, ye w'ar — 

That's as good as a dozen mass meetin's fur us; 

Fur the3''ll have ter trot out a loud patriot cuss 

On the oppersite side to trump tliat kind o' keerd; 

But thej-'ve got nary one of which we are afeerd. 

We'll bring out the old flag, with a whoop, an' a shout, 

An' a rush, that can't fail ter completely clean out 

Our opponents, an' so, don't 3'e see, git the whole 

Of the deestrick's fat offices in our control. 

We perpose to start low in the scale: here's a call 

Fur the State lesfislatur to run this next fall. 



258 HKLKN. 

This is on'y the lust — tlie beginnin', ni\' friend; 
An" thar's no knowin' ^vhar, sir, an' wlien it'll end. 
ICf \"e watch sharp yer corners, be keerfnl, an' don't 
.Make no blunders niir balks, keep yerself to the front, 
\'()te accordin' to corkis, stand up to the rack, 
An' don't t;"it nary princerpul-cricks in yer l>ack. 
Why, Mark, we'll make a man o' ye! On'y be straii^ht, 
An' we'll carr\- \e throui^h, ef Old Knick's at the .^ate!" 

XT II. 

Landis listened with patient respect, until throui^h 

Was the Chairman with his terse and coi^ent review 

Of political manhood's essentials; then said: 

" Friends and neighbors, I heartily thank you. I've read 

The request, very flattering, here made of me. 

That I stand as your candidate; yet, while must be 

Ever dear to my heart the kind favor of friends, 

I must say to yoti frankly, that I have no ends 

Such as would be subserved by accepting- this call, 

And must therefore decline, again tlinnking you all. 

I rt--.iL4H-t, Mr. Cliaii iiKin, that I cannot grant 

Your desire; but, sincerely, no oflice I want." 

rx. 
— " U'Jiaf s that f bolted the Chairman, when Landis had 

paused, 
Whose last words ]ioignant pain to his spirit had caused; 
" Won't run? Don't want no office? Why, is the man mad.-" 
Better 'pinion o' you, neighbor Mark, had I had!" 

X. 

The committee en masse rose, and (.)ne moment gazed 
At the General, shocked, pained, disgusted, amazed; 
And, while sadly bewildered, aghast standing there, 
— The truth naked I tell — each particular hair 



POLITICS. 259 

Of each dunib-struck coiuiuitteeniaii stood stiff and hard, 

Like — like cjuills — Hke 

O, Avon's and Nature's great l)ard! 
From thy tomb in old Stratford come forth, and give me, 
What my muse hath denied me, a new simile. 
To set forth the strange compound of wonderment, pain, 
Fond regret, sorrow, sympathy, scorn, and disdain, 
Friendl}' chiding and bitter contemning, all blent 
Anci commingled in one look supreme and intent, 
In our average national visage discerned. 
Turned upon a man who ne'er for office hath vearnedl 

XI. 

But, •' eternal .sprang hope" in that old Chairman's breast; 
And he could not believe that a life with such zest 
Should be lost to the party. He rallied again, 
And appealed to Mark Landis in this fervent strain, 
In which utilitarian ethics combined 
With political .sense of the earthiest kind: 

XII. 

" Take a feller's advice in the ])art\- grown gray; 

\\'ho has seen repperlalions rise up an' decay, 

Like the mushrat bogs ilDltin" our sloii^lis; seen ujistnrts 

Shoot forth, run their .short lace, an" fade out, like s])ring warts 

On these tough liands o'niiue! Hear an old 'un who's .seen 

PoUiwog ])olitirians tht-ir ])ools wiggle in 

Fur a few sunu\- da\ s, an' llien dry up in mud I 

Heed a chap who has chawed the perlitical cud! 

Don't 3-e let this smart chance yer young fingers sli]) through — 

This prime hour to make hay while the sun shines fur \ou! 

'Twon't shine allers, m>- l)oy, as it'sshinin' terdav: 

Popperlarity's dark ekernoctial yer way 



'■ii'>0 IIKLKN. 

Ma\- sweep past; then ye' re down, 'way down, flat on yer l)ack; 
An" in pollertics, mind, thar's no i;ainin' los' track. 
While the ynniur the changeable pnblic is on, 
To pay yon np in fnll for yer sojer-work done, 
Take all yon can git clamps on, an' stow it away, 
'Ginst what comes to the best on ns — some rainy day. 
Reckin twic't! This refnshal with which ye liave met ns 
Take back! Why, man, 7L'e // S('>id jc tcr Co)i^i^irss, 'fjc'/l/cfus.''* 

XIII. 

And the Chairman pansed, stood off at arm's length, and bent 

On Mark Landis a look most impressive, which went — 

Or, at least, was intended to go — to his sonl; 

vSnch a look as meant this, if my pen can control 

Words snfhcient to give it a frame: That to him — 

To him, Landis — was offered what not chernbim. 

Seraphim, nor archangel, can e'er overpraise; 

What no bard of earth trnly can sing in his lays; 

A supreme, rare felicity, only bestowed 

On the brave, and the pure, and the great, and tlie good; — 

That to him had been proffered, in that prize held forth, 

Something far beyond gold thrice refined in its worth: 

Fruitage such as no islands of tropic seas yield: 

Nectar never for gods on Olympus distilled. 

XIV. 

To the true politician, the popular ]:)rancli 

Of our Congress is Heaven; and he who is staunch, 

" vSquare", and faithful to party, may cherish the hope 

Thither some golden day to be vote-wafted up. 

All above this position is but degree glory, — 

All are angels there, sitting in Heaven's first story. 



POLITICS. 201 

XV. 

But the General was so far lost to all sense 
Of the Chairman's outline of supreme opulence, 
That he most sacrilegiously this to him spoke, 
Which wt'll nig;h his susceptible, tender heart l^roke: 

XVI. 

" Mr, Chairman, I deem it more honor to till 

My farm here, if I shall till it well, than to fill 

The position of Congressman, even. There lies 

In the gift of the people no office 1 prize: 

And as long as calm reason shall sit on her throne, 

Just so long will Mark Landis his soul call his own. 

Should I e'er see the time, 'neath the smiling of fate. 

When a man can take office for good of the state. 

And not pledged to sink honor and soul in the dust. 

I should proud be to hold a position of trust; 

But ere that time shall come, Mr. Chairman, your head 

And mine will in their last and long rest have been laid. 

I doubt not that 'twill come in the slow rolling years, 

But our tales will be told ere its day-star appears. 

XVII. 

" And again: ijear in mind, 'twas no bargain I made, 
No mean, cool, calculating, sharp patriot-trade. 
Entered into between Government and myself 
Whereby I, for political vantage and pelf. 
Promise made to defend it. No! If I was leal 
To the nation protecting my life and my weal, 
It were venal to lay an}- claim to reward 
For but doing my duty by drawing my sword. 
Should I ever bring down my own manhood so low 
As my wounds to the public to set up for show. 



^'»2 HKLKN. 

Like the inc-iulicant cripples who sit on tlie street 
And from all passers-b}- coppers nieekl\- entreat, 
I were then subject fit for m>- country's contempt, 
Not her trust. Whosoe'er would a citizen tempt 
To so rank an abasement of manhood, deser\es 
To be crushed b_\- the mean part>- spirit he serves: 
And no man I esteem to be longer my friend 
Who \v«)uld hold out to me so ignoble an end!" 

XVIII. 
This llie theme set at rest, most effectually, 
And thenceforth Mark from like importunings was free; 
For a man holding such seutiments is the one, 
Of all mortal men under enlightenment's sun, 
Whom professional patriots least can abide. 

Thus, while, flushed with his fame, ■Mark was still in the tide 
Of world-favor, he in the political zone 
Was accorded a most " severe letting alone.' 



CANTO THIRD. 



OPINION. 



I. 

As the nionths and tlic seasons trooped b>-, Laudis showed 

Not a sign of relaxing the efforts bestowed 

On his farm work — such efforts as all energies 

Of his nature enlisted. By no slow degrees 

His soft hands became hard, rough, and horny again, 

And his fine features bronzed; and the deep, honest stain 

Of farm life the devotion bespoke that he gave 

To this -mistress, which people said made him its slave. 

— ' ' Far from that I 'Twas his bride, and he loved it, as wife 

Can be loved who makes sweet the experience bitter of lite. 

Il was all the bride now he dreamed ever to wed."' 

This was to an inquisitive neighbor once said. 

II. 
But the dreams of his neighboring feminine friends 
Did not tall\- at all with his own. They had ends 
And })lanned .schemes for him, which were all sadly frustrated 
B\- his ])urpose declared of remaining unmated. 

III. 
Over him had the Sewing Society watched. 
Like a sitting hen over her chickens unhatched. 
At (jne afternoon's full-quorumed heathen-work l)ee, 
Mark was sandwiched between the poor pagans and tea: 



2G4 HELEN. 

Neatly then was our farmer transfixed on a spit, 
Shifted over and done to a turn, and made fit 
For a meal for those cannibals for whose dear sake 
These sweet saints wrought in spirit of martyr at stake. 

-IV. 

That not wholly adverse were the comments i)ut forth 

On our hero and friend l)y these workers of worth, 

Our report clearly shows. We prenii.se at the start, 

That a score or more took in the plaiidcrci part; 

And we do not each speech by it.self designate, 

But leave all unassorted, as in the debate, — 

Negative with affirmative mingling, in maze 

Which a well ruled debating school's chairman would craze. 

V. 

Thus began the symposium ; 

" Horrid the shame, 
That a young man like him, with a nobly earned name, 
And a very fair fortune, should thi)ik [thus accenting 
This word in true feminine style] of absenting 
Himself from our pleasant society here, 
And affect to play hermit!" 

VI. 

"And yet he's a dear, 
Just dclightfid so(i\Q.\.y man, if one only 
Could draw him away from his solitude lonely." 

VII. 
" And what do you suppose the true reason can l)e 
For his reticence strange, and his close ])rivacy?" 

VIII. 

" Disappointment in love, they .say; though he'd appear 
To be too strong of will to let that interfere 
With his normal digestion." 



OPINION. 2(JO 

IX. 

" With whom is it said 
He was smitten so serioush-?" 

" One who is dead, 
I l)tlieve. thoui^h her name I can't just now recall." 

X. 

" Dead loves linger not long. Autunni leaves do not fall 
Many times on their graves. 

"And, the General seems 
To be too much engros.sed in his work to nurse dreams 
Of the dead." 

XI. 

" Those who claim to be better informed 
Than the balance, insist that his heart never warmed 
Save to one, and that she w^alks the living among. 
Not the dead; to which love he has e'er closely clung: 
In a w^ord, that for her he is grieving wdao was 
Helen Graves." 

.XII. 

" That is all a mistake!" 

"Why?" 

' ' Because 
She'd have had him twice over, had he ever asked 
For her hand." 

XIII. 

" Then her feelings adroitly she masked; 
For she seemed to be madly in love, all the while. 
With Dick Rolfe." 

XIV. 

" O, well, she was a flirt! In a wile 
Of her own setting she w^as most handsomely caught; 
And 'twas good enough for her: the minx!" 



■'*'»'"' HEI.KN. 

" iiul slie i>Ot 
A good husband, withal." 

" \\'li>'. \es; too good for her, 
By one half. One can scarcely with patience refer 
To her long stay abroad, under plea that his health 
Makes it requisite. Bah! vShe is wasting his wealth. 
Just to gratify whims of her own." 

" That's the truth; 
Well, she always 7iy?.v cjueer, from her earliest youth." 

XV. 

" Have you talked with our pastor of Landis?" 

xvi. 

" To-day 
We were speaking of him in a casual way. 
' A free giver the General is,' Pastor says: 
' But strange notions he nurses, and singular waj's; 
And I fear he's not orthodox.' " 

XVII. 

"Oh!" 

"Ah!" 

" Dear!" 

"My!" 

XVIII. 

" And wherein seems his heterodoxy to lie^ 
I am sure that he used to be .sound as a bell." 

XIX. 

" There's the troul)le! 'Tis hard, says our pastor, to tell 
What his actual sentiments are." 

XX. 

' ' Then the man 
Has been judged without hearing. To start thus a ban 
From sheer negative premises based on mistrust, 
With no positi\-e knowledge, is grossly unjust. 



opixiox. 2<>1) 

Though to our catechetical pastor obscure 

His theology be, clean his life is, and pure; 

And his sweet, earnest faith in the Lord of the j'cars. 

And His word and their promise, too patent appears, 

To permit me to doubt that when Yonder is called 

The long roster, the pastor will find him enrolled." 

XXI. 

Thus the dissonant chatter ran on. 

" By the way. 

You know what people have been accustomed to sa}- 
Of the General's health. There's no doubt he has been 
Quite consumptive. But our doctor says discipline, 
Regimen, open air exercise, wholesome food, 
And strong will, have the malady fairly subdued; 
So that that plea no longer forms any excuse 
For his not marrying." 

" 'Tis a sinful abuse 
Of his gifts." 

''Thcidea!" 

''Absurd!'' 

''He s a bear! " 

XXII. 

"No! You wrong him most deeply. Ungracious nowhere. 

And a gentleman always, is he, and so true!" 

Said an elderly lady, who had hitherto 

In this gentle word-scrimmage had nothing to say. 

She instinctively glanced at a locket that lay 

On her breast, which a miniature picture enclosed: 

This a young soldier's bright, handsome features disclosed. 

To one near her who sat in low tones she explained. 

While a tear, from her eye dropped, the locket's face stained: 

XXIII. 

" My boy loved him and cleaved to him, as to a brother. 

And died at his side." 

'Twas the Corporal's mother. 



CANTO FOURTH. 



SURCKASE. 



I. 

By the Mediterranean's shore, hid awaj^ 
From the penetrant eye of the world, dreaming lay 
A (juaint hamlet. The busy, tumnltuous tide 
Of earth's traffic and travel its precincts left wide. 
Thither came not, incisive, with hum and with buzz, 
(Which the soul would have tried of the good man of Uz,) 
Human bees, wasps, and insects of kindred antennie, 
Styled tourists; nor thither, to seek the brisk penny, 
Came traveler commercial. 

So close was the spot. 
And so still, that the noisy old sea half forgot 
His loud talk when he reached its calm shore through the bay, 
Where the eld- fashioned fishing smacks lazily lay. 
As with delicate, exquisite mantle of lace. 
In far looms woven daintily, deftly, the face 
Of the landscape with vapor translucent was veiled; 
And one might deem the skirts of the angels had trailed 
Along hills that lay fair in the soft southern sun. 
And nursed fondly the dream of a day that was done. 

II. 
This far nook of the world sought two mortals oppressed; 
Hither came they to find, what both .sore needed, rest. 
For I trow, Helen Rolfe, that not solely for him 
By whose couch 3'ou had watched till o'er l)raiii as o'er limb 



SURCEASE. 271 

Languors stealthily crept, had you sought this retreat; 
But that you craved as well a relief from the heat, 
And the dust, and the wearing, and anguish, and tears, 
Which thus far had been yours in your womanhood's years. 

III. 
A Xorse legend in FrithioPs Saga lays down 
This stern rule for the hero who fights for renown: 
" Gain to viking is wound, and it doth him adorn. 
When on forehead or breast the scar is to be worn. 
Let it bleed; bind it not until daylight be done, 
Wouldst thou merit 'mong vikings to be counted one."* 
It is e'er deemed an honor, in all kinds of war. 
Not to faint while the battle is raging. The scar 
That must proudl\- adorns hero's brow, cheek, or breast 
Is the one where the weapon most deeply has pressed. 
'Tis the wound that bled longest, that latest was bound, 
Which will ne'er fail to be with the most glory crowned. 

IV. 

This is true in life's warfare. 

To Helen Rolfe's heart 
There had come weary moments when blood-drops would start 
From her wounds, and when spirit and flesh were both weak. 
At such times she had longed some safe shelter to .seek. 
Where in peace she might lie while the storm raged without. 
And hear naught of the fighting, or triumph, or rout. 
She, had sometimes yearned strongly once more to go back 
To that home on the prairie, away from war's track, 
To that fond parent breast, to that true heart which beat 
But for her; and the olden, loved hearth were retreat 



^See Title-Page. 



HTZ HELKN. 

To her soul the most gratetul. But ever then came* 
The implacable Conscience the judge, and cried: " Shame! 
In the front, in the heat of the battle, wouldst shrink? 
Better now and here into oblivion sink!" 

V. 
Yet with honor at length she had left the hard field, 
To retire till her woundings and bruisings were healed. 
And would healing come when came the quiet she sought? 
To this question she scarcely had vouchsafed a thought. 
She had hoped; she had trusted; she still would liojje, trust; 
But, if need be, her way could j-et lie through the dust. 

VI. 

. . . Richard Rolfe made a hard fight for life. Hope was 

strong; 
Life was dear; and his system stood stoutl}- and long, 
The importunate summons resisting, which seemed 
Issued out of Death's court. 

One malignant light gleamed 
Against hope. At the portal of l)reath the ball lay, 
Like a panther beside and assured of its prey — 
This reminder grim of his last day on the field. 
Where his brightly ambitious career had been sealed. 
All things else now conspired death's design to defeat; 
All things else stood for life — but this last foe to meet. 
The entire separation from scenes that might tend 
To distraction of mind, availed vast aid to lend 
In the struggle. The quiet, the climate, the air, 
And, above and beyond all, the sweet, tender care 
Of the gentle, and faithful, and vigilant wife, 
Guarding w-ell all the avenues leading to life; 
Reinforcing with prayer all the efforts of breath; 
Standing sentry against each approach of pale Death; — 



SURCKASK. 273 



These were elements ranging- thcnisehc-s on hopes side, 
While the panther, close crouching-, their might still defied. 



VII. 

The weeks wore into months, and the months into years; 

And still hovered life there, amid doubts, hopes, and fears. 

One, three, five years passed by; and still there Richard lay, 

Quiet, trustful, submissive, beneath Helen's sway: 

Asking not to return to his own nati\-e land: 

Asking only for rest, and the presence that spanned 

All the radiant sky of his gently watched life — 

His untiring, all-tender, all-dutiful wife; 

Her sweet duplicate, too — liope's illumed morning star, 

The first-born child of spring, the fair blossom of war, 

The fulfilled prophecy of contentment and rest. 

That had been (for dear Madame Marsile) named Celeste. 

VIII. 

Let it not l)e thought that, in this far-away clime, 
Helen lacked for the means of diverting the time; 
She accustomed herself to sketch scenes from her door; 
And sometimes she reached farther in nature's great store, 
And among the near hills wandered, bringing back thence 
New enchantments for Rolfe, whose delight was intense, 
And not flattery-feigned; for his love-lighted eyes, 
In confirming his lips, spoke his o'erpleased surprise. 
And it grew to be one of the joys of her days. 
From him thus to wring ever fresh springing eye-praise, 
And these silent encomiums strove hard to gain. 
For, though guileful at seasons, the eyes cannot feign 



274 HELKN. 

Overlong, like the voice, and a miracle-lie 

With each moment renew, to keep faith in supply. 

IX. 

These exertions, prolonged, at length caused her to feel 

Something tinged as with pride in her augmenting skill 

In the use of the crayon; which by degrees served 

To incite her to higher attempts, and her striving arm nerved, 

And enabled her nature's expressions to catch. 

Giving birth to desire that she might lift the latch 

Into art's antechamber that opens. Ere long, 

Then, her confidence growing sufficiently strong, 

She aspired upon canvas the sketches to place. 

Which it filled uj) the years of seclusion to trace. 

.\. 
The world truly was limited she had to please, 
And by no means a captious one, ready to freeze 
With its icy neglect, shame with praise insincere, 
Blast with preconceived frown, sting with connoisseur sneer. 
Or with critic-claws savage disfigure and tear 
The first children her efforts in travail should bear. 
The chief censor was Richard, and he the most stern; 
Next came large-eyed Celeste, with her critical turn; 
And to supplement them, something over a score 
Of shy, e3'e-straining peasants, who passed by her door. 
Bringing wine, grapes, and fruits of the season to sell. 
And the news of their little earth-circuit to tell: 
And these made up the whole of mankind's mighty heart, 
Which she sought to touch by her exertions in art. 

XI. 

— With a trifling exception or two. 

There was one 
Whose severity was not a myth, and whose frown 







-^ .r -^ 

~ ° S 

— ^ "n 

« g a 



SURCKASE. 2T7 

Rested oltcii on efforts the rest had declared 

Without flaw; and that one was herself. Roughh- fared 

Any fault or defect that in au.^ht she had done 

She should find. 

In the struggle-lined years that were gone. 
In the multiplied trials her young life had seen, 
Helen ever her own judge severest had been; 
And this still was the case. 

XII. 

But again: was there not, 
Running through these strong, out-reaching efforts, a thought, 
A desire, or a dream, to do something that might, 
At some time, meet an eye whose illuminant light 
From her life's joys or woes had been shut out for aye? — 
Something which, viewed by one, might induce him to say: 
"She wrought out of the shadows some things to grace earth; 
She brought out of the trial some strength that had worth"? 
Let the years solve the question; but if this had been 
An incentive to her in her self-discipline. 
When she struggled in art as she struggled in life. 
No less surely it made her a true, helpful wife. 

XIII. 

And in art not alone Helen interest took. 
She oft mingled among the Provence peasant-folk, 
Gleaning legends in their softened tongue that still lived, 
And their soul into lays for her husband's ear w^eaved, 
Which with aid of the little Celeste's voice were sung; 
And what need to .say, rapt on these ballads he hung? 
There were .songs of all days in the Middle Age times 
Handed down in the measures of these Romance rhymes. 
The strains mainly but sounded such slumbering themes 
As the world has forgot since it gave o'er its dreams: 



278 HKLEN. 

The charmed tales of Crusaders at times telling- o'er; 
Again singing of Spain's prolonged strife with the Moor; 
Anon chaunting of days when the Frank ruled the age, 
And lined all in bright gold Europe's historied page. 

XIY. 

Richard cleaved to one ballad that Helen thus sang. 
Wherein tender romance of old chivalry rang, 
While it served more than others to soothe his own breast; 
And thus ran, bv her rendered, 



Y^e g'laidcrj's Ijo^cQuesf. 



Of true love hear, that was tried of yore: 

There lived a knight, in the olden summers; 
A strong, sure blade at his side he wore; 

In jousts stood ever against all comers. 
II. 
He loved a maiden; she loved him well; 

He rode to Palestine 'gainst the Paynini. 
Came word a captive the brave knight fell; 

Fain the maid would know if the foe had slain him. 
III.. 
She donned the guise of a troubadour; 

From home and friends she with brave heart parted; 
Through wearying leagues lay her sad love-tour, 

While she tidings sought of her faithful-hearted. 

IV. 

She reached the land of the dear Lord's birth; 

vShe neared the field where the hosts were lying; 
With a fever -thirst she had sunk to earth; 

Her strength fled fast, and she seemed dying. 

V. 

Came charging by, with e.xullant cries, 

A troop of riders, with fierce arms mounted; 



2V.) 



SURCEASE. 

She durst uot look, ami she veiled her eyes; 
vShe crossed herself, and her beads she counted. 

VI. 

She laid her i'acc on the parched sand; 

She breathed one prayer to the Mother :\Iary 
" O, let some knight, if I in this land 

Must die, my heart to my own land carry!" 

VII. 

Her thirst grew great; in her agony 

She craved the spears of the rushing foemen. 

These words then thrilled her: " O, not for thee 
The lances true of my trusty yoenien! 

VIII. 

"Our Lady Mary hath heard thy prayer; 

Thy heart, home-faring, shall be my burden; 
But next mine own it shall rest when there: 

Our bridal-bells shall thy brave faith guerdon." 



XV. 

Between tending her patient, and cttlling these lays. 

Whose quaint strains .served to soothe and to sweeten his days, 

The so careful instruction bestowed on her child, 

And her studies in art, the time Helen beguiled. 

And filled up to completeness; and never a day 

Since her head the first night on Provence pillows lay 

Had a single hour heavily hung on her hands. 

Had she felt at all irksome her close exile-bands. 

XVI. 

In the simple, hard lives by the fishermen led. 
In the battles they fought with the billows for bread, 
In their sorrows and joys, Helen could not have failed 
To take interest. Frequently was she regaled 



'-.*!Sl» HKLKN. 

\\'ilh llie rhythm of songs of the sea, and the burdens 
Of ballads that told of the struggle-earned guerdons 
These toilers won there on the strand and the wave, 
These toilers so hardy, and patient, and brave. 
Among such strains was rarely heard one that was not 
With devotion the truest and tenderest fraught, 
Which conduced to build up this rude folk in their faith. 
Such a one was the lay of 

\r)<i. Kisl}eriT)<ar) s Wrailr), 

I. 
O, sav, hast Ihou heard of the fisliennan's ,i>host ? 

If not, sit by my side. 

And, while out flows the tide, 
I'll sin,i^ thee a song of a barqne that was lost — 

u. 
That was lost in the years that shall never retnrn, 

When the fisherman's brow 

Was not clouded, as now. 
With c-are clinging to lives burdened, ])inchcd and forlorn. 

III. 
In those years vowed a fisher an ini])ious vow, — 

Vowed by no saint adored. 

But by Judas abhorred, — 
To make draught with his net fisher never yet saw. 

IV. 

Not a shade of a cloud heaven's azure vault veiled. 

As his boat sailed away 

O'er the breast of the bay, 
While with pride overweening his false bosom swelled. 

v. 
.\nd along the shore drifting, numense was the draught 

As his nets in he hauled; 

Then on Judas he called, 
Praising him while a blaspliemous beaker he (juatTed: 



Sl'RCEASK. 2i^l 



"Good Isoariol, I bless lli-vl " uxulUuit he crieil, 

As his shallop he veered, 

And his course homeward steered 
l-'or his cot b\' the bay where the sea's breakers died. 

VII. 

.Still no cloud in the sky; l)ut the fisher. (). where 

Was his bar(jue and its freight ? 

lyong, ah! long did they wait 
V,y his hearth his return, till hope died in despair. 

VIII. 

Hut when soft lay the moon on the bosom of night, 

Traversed slowly the ghost 

Of the fisherman lost 
Wonted ]>aths on the strand of the surge-singing bight. 

IX. 

And ihe gootlwives they say that when winds wildlv blow> 

If they cross the weird path 

Of the fisherman's wraith, 
The}- can hear him his vow by Saint Judas renew. 



XVII. 
In the lives of the peasant-folk, tending their vines, 
And their barley and olives, ran scarce such hard lines 
As the fishermen knew; and it gave Helen food 
For reflection the deepest, this people so rttde, 
Yet so candid and earnest, to study with care, 
And their joys and their griefs with them sometimes to share. 
She partook of their sentiments as of their cheer. 
And was charmed with their manners, tinstudied, sincere. 
Among other songs gathered from them in her trips 
Was one taken b}' her from the singer's own lips, 
And whose pathos unique spoke the spirit and tone 
Which proverbially arc the Provence peasant's (nvn: 



282 



hi;i.i:n'. 



ue J^avsar) ^zt)Iz.t)\. 



A peasant I, I know no leisnre: 

I work from dawn till darkness falls; 
No time have- I for rest or pleasure; 
I only range where duty calls: 

But life is dear to lue and mine, 
And never does my heart re])ine. 
11. 
Rises mv wife ere light of niorniny, 
And late betakes herself to rest; 
She has no gems for her adorning; 
Her jewel best is l)abe at bre:\sl; 

But life is sweet to wife of mine, 
And never does her heart rei)ine. 
III. 
The good ])riest in the gloaming shrives us; 
For prayers of length our tinie is scant; 
Yet from devotion need ne'er drives us; 

Our beads we count, how great our want. 
And thus grow hearts of me and mine 
Content, and ne'er do we repine. 

IV. 

Six weans have I, of tender ages, 

Each one worth wealth all Provence bears; 
Contain not all earth's written pages 

Descriptions of such charms as theirs; 

Life's lore I'll teach these darlings mine. 
And lead them never to repine. 

V. 

Should king the half his kingdom offer 
l'"or these, God's gifts T hold in trust, 

I'd spurn with scorn the gilded proffer. 

And keep the babes, though with a crust. 



SURCEASE. 



X^83 



No alms I ask for me or mine, 
(rriuVs^e no man's gol<l, nor e'er repine. 

VI. 

The dear Christ, who for us bore sorrows, 

Aids me my burdens all to bear; 
M}- heart, though full, no trouble borrows; 

We're blest through His blest Mother's prayer. 
Thus fills contentment me and mine, 
And never do our hearts repine. 










>--#^'.: 




CANTO FIFTH. 



SHADOWS. 



I. 

One calm eve, in the crimson-and-gold sunset hour, 

Helen saw, as she sat in her vine-covered door, 

A conveyance drive through the one street of the town, 

And at one of the huts something gently set down, 

Which her quick instinct told her was some person ill; 

And she hastened to proffer such aid and good will 

As one might to soul desolate, faint, or forlorn; 

Sought and entered the hut; and there, wasted and worn, 

But preserving the impress of native grace still, 

L,ay the love-hallowed form of dear Madame Marsile. 

II. 
" Helen, darling," she whispered, " m>- troubles fade fast; 
But they end in m\- own native hamlet at last. 
I have come home to die, as I longed e'er to do; 
And my death will be sweetened by being near }OU, 
Remain by me, nia chrir, till the closing scene ends, 
And my eyelids draw down, ni}' most prized of all friends!" 

III. 
'Twas a labor of love — ah, what tencier love now! — 
For the trial-versed Helen to press the wan brow, 
And to moisten the li])s that with fever were parched. 
The hot temple to bathe which the Inirning Ijrain scorched, 



SHADOWS. 285 

And the aching head pillow upon her own 1:)reast, 
Where her burdens less sorely now seemed to be pressed; 
p'or in face of the sorrows that whelmed this rich life, 
Lost to view where her own troubles in the world's strife. 

IV. 

While attending the sufferer pale, as she lay 

In the shadows that deepened with each passing day, 

Helen felt to the task consecrated anew, 

Which u^xjii her the \ears had imposed. Doubly true • 

Was she now to the vow she had taken when earth 

Had for her lost its sweetness, joy, music, and mirth, — 

When the hard lines of duty in dense gloom were drawn, 

And her sky showed no traces of hope's coming dawn. 

V. 

. . . Days not many had Madame Marsile lingered there, 
When a messenger viewless from realms of the air 
To the lowly cot came where in patience she lay, 
And her tempest-tossed spirit from earth bore away. 

VI. 

The last words that to Helen her dear friend had said, 
Were these: 

" Under ni}' pillow, at rest when I'm laid. 
In m\- native Provencal a legend you'll find, 
full of liitterest sadness, with tragic shades lined. 
I bequeath it to you; and have only to say, 
Kre the tide of my weak breath at last ebbs away, 
That the legend but shadows the dark, trou1)led sea 
Which has swept with its waves o'er all mine and o'er me. 
O. whatever clouds over your life may have hung. 
Thank 3'our God that you listened to conscience while young; 
And preserve, though j-our future with sorrow be brimmed, 
The bright jewel of womanhood ever undimmed. 



28(5 IIKLKN. 



Lower never tlie standard : true safety lies there : 
C esl ina fiisti, drrnicrc, ardciilc prilrc.'' 

VII. 

When the poor soul no longer life's tenancy held, 
The sad manuscript legacy Helen unsealed, 
And translated for Richard ; and thus the weird tale 
Her \-oice bore as bore winds the sea's bay-broken wail : 

Deall) (ar)(a Ir)e \/ir)tr)CP. 

FROM THK PROVEN(jAL." 
I. 
The vintuer sat by his thatched cot door ; 
He was old, and bent, and wan, and poor. 
On the hillside showed a saddening sight — 
His vineyard struck with the yellow l)light. 
'Twas in the province of old Garonne, 
Tlie nionntainous province, whose power has flown. 

II. 
The sun toward the hill-tops was sinking low. 
But the valley still felt its reddening glow, 
Which over the variant landscape shone, 
And filled with its glory all Garonne. 

III. 
In the hush of that silent hour, there rode 
A horseman up to the mean abode. 
The old man noted his kindly mein : 
A gentler presence he ne'er had seen. 
A guest he seemed 'twere a joy to greet ; 
Shrank not the vintner his ga/.e to meet. 

IV. 

" Art all alone ?" asked the stranger mikl, 
" I have nor friend, nor wife, nor child." 



*The ProveiKjal idiom originally extended beyond the old limits of Provence, in 
Southeastern France, and embraced the legion hounded on the east by the Atlantic, on 
the north by a line running from tlie department of Gironde, through Dordogne, 
Creuse, etc., to Savoie; on the east by Italy, and on the south by the Mediterranean. 



SHADOWS. yST 

'•Tilt; l)ltterest seenieth thy lot to be." 
"My days they are full of misery." 
'• Hast thou seen uought but wretchedness?" 
" I once knew truest happiness." 
Then said the guest to the vintner old: 
•'I fain would hear thy life-tale told." 
"Wilt light and ^it on my threshold-stone, 
And list to an old wight's weary croon?" 

V. 

The sunset rays from the valley fled, 
And left a softened light in their stead; 
For vet on the mountain heights they shone, 
And gilded the hills of fair Garonne. 

VI. 

The guest sat down, intent and still. 
The old man chattered, as old men will. 
And, soothed with a listener, gossiped free, 
Becharmed with his own garrulity. 
He w'andered back to the days of eld, 
And a listener intent the stranger held. 

vir. 
" I once had a wife, who was fair to see, 
And friends; and the world went well with me. 
My wife had the blood of a southern race; ■ 

She had great, black eyes, and an angel-face. 
Her long, black hair had well been meet 
To wipe the dear Redeemer's feet! 

VIII. 

"Three lovely babes, which the Virgin blessed. 
In turn were pre.ssed to my wife's white breast. 
In three glad springs, with the opening flowers, 
Came into our home these girls of ours. 
Jeaunette was the fairest of all the three. 
And she was the one that was most like me; 
Lisette was dark, with an eye of fire. 
And she had her mother's love and ire; 



28S HKI.KX. 

Minctte was the gentlest of all in heart 
Had thr most of truth, and the least of art. 

i\. 

"There came to our dale, one summer day, 

A tall gallant, with a Ijearing gay: 

A man with hands not hard and brown, 

But as soi't and white as the eider-down; 

Not rough in speech and tone, like nie, 

But as smooth as the Provence minstrelsy. 

He fixed his eyes on my dear Mathilde; 

He looked a look through her soul that thrilled. 

He dallied long, too long, b\' her side; 

He told her legends of pomp and pride; 

Till she dreamed a dream, new. fond, and strange. 

Of a life above our low, ilull range. 

He sang her a strain she had never sung, 

Spoke winning words with a flattering tongue, 

And breathed a tale of a mansion fair 

That she in his native vale might share. 

vShe lost her heart, she lost her truth. 

And she lost the honest name of her youth. 

She left her babes; she left her race; 

She left all hopes of Mary's grace. 

With the light, false churl m\' sweet wife fled, 

And I know not now be she quick or dead; 

But deal] or quick though the frail one be, 

God send her a share of my misery! 

X. 

'■ M)- babes sore needed a mother's care, 
But they bloomed in 1)eauty bright and rare. 
One was a lily, graceful and tall, 
Beloved by few. but admired by .all; 
One was a rose, in sen.suous bloom, 
O'erladen with its rich perfume; 
A violet one, in naTve grace bent, 
\\'ith its own loveliness content. 



SHADOWS. 280 



"Jcaunette, ashamed of my low degree, 
Made. l)ase conditions with quality. 
Lisette, with passionate hate imbued, 
Her hrinds in vinlagc of rriuR- imbrued. 
]\Iinette wiles treacherous led to yield, 
And now she lies in the potter's field. 

XII. 

■'The HI)' drooped 'neath scornful eves; 
The rosL' was spotted with purple d\es; 
Tlu- violet sank in the vale of its birth: 
My l)al)es all sleep in the breast of earth. 
My vines are withered, my wealth is flown. 
And I am left in the world alone." 

XIII. 

The vintner ceased. His haggard cheek 
Was tinged from feelings he could not speak. 
There came a gleam to his dull, filmed eye, 
Of the fire that burned, in the days gone by; 
With his torn blouse-sleeve he wiped awav 
Tears strangers there for many a dav. 

XIV. 
Its mantle gra\- had the twilight thrown 
Over host and guest on the threshold-stone, 
For the sun had sunk in his glory down, 
Behind the hills of fair Garontie. 

XV. 

In a kindly tone spake the stranger-guest: 
" Methinks thou wishest, of all things, rest." 
"Thou sayest sooth," and the old man sighed. 
"My name is DEATH," the guest replied. 
"Thy grief is great: go thou with me, 
.■\nd re.st and peace thy meed shall be." 

XVI. 

The vintner crossed himself in dread. 
'"I deemed thee a friend!" he shuddering- said. 



'iOU HELEN. 

Ouolh gL-iille Death: '" As a friend I oanie, 
To lift the load from thy heart and frame: 
Break they not yet. I will go my way. 
And call for" tin- soul some wearier day." 

XVII. 

Death mused, as he mounted liis ])allid horse, 

And rode again on his olden course: 

" In all the years of my earthh' round, 

A drearier life have I never found. 

Did ever a welcome my coming greet, 

Methought twoukl be in this lone retreat. 

Rut past my ken is all mortal thought: 

Met, I'm not wanted; not found when sought; 

Where the world is brightest there's most unrest, 

And life seems sweetest where dea-th is best." 



VIII. 
Having finished the tale, Richard's hand in her own 
Holding, Helen thus said, in a sad, tender tone: 
" O, my husband, appalled I shrink at the sotil-dearth, 
Degradation, and angnish this legend shades forth; 
And I shndder to think of the teniptings they bring 
To a spirit beclouded with care's shadowing. 
When we see the thick darkness that shronds other lives, 
Let us mnrmnr not, when round our own the storm drives, 
If it leaves us so much from the wreck that it makes; 
If it drops such a share of the treasures it takes." 

IX. 

Richard backward looked, over his ambitious .schemes, 
O'er the golden horizon hope bathed with its beams 
In rich years of his prime, and on years wasting now, 
And saw vanishing all, with a smile on his brow; 



SHADOWS. 



J3t»l 



Then he said, while he fervently Helen's hand pressed, 
And his gaze seemed to find in her eyes grateful rest: 
"You are better than all, (), my wife, and my child! 
While to me you're preserved, 1 shall be reconciled!" 




CANTO SIXTH. 



BKAl"TV. 



I. 

So the vears journeyed on, as they will jonrney on, 
Gentle reader, when your work and mine shall 1)e done, 
And our hands shall be folded forever and a>e. 
" Which is old, and exceedingly trite," yon may say. 
Frankly granted. 

But, having- life's grand climax seen, — 
Having wrought to solution the problem terrene, — 
This conclusion reached wisdom-filled old Solomon, 
At the end, that " there's nothing new under the sun." 

II. 
Stand with me in December, and gaze at the trees. 
Leafless, naked, and desolate, whipped by each breeze: 
Sland again in June's gladness — how changed is the scene! 
See that nakedness covered with choice robes of green! 
'Tis a tale told l)y nature, as old as gray time, 
And yet fresh as the airs that fanned Eden's sweet prime. 
Could we wish that the woods should forget, for a change, 
Their rich emerald toilet some spring to arrange? 

III. 
Listen yonder, where, under the stars' sacred light, 
Two souls mingle love's first affirmations, and plight 
Troth till death. Their hearts" language is simple, though 

grand. 
And as old as the hills, and as long will it stand. 



BKArrv. -^93 

'Tis the same olden formula: " I love; love me; 
Love me trul}- and ()nl\-; I love only thee." 
How trite seems the fond tale! Yet to them 'tis as fresh 
As a world-wakino;- advent of Ciod in the flesh. 

IV. 

Harken soft in yon chamber, where death sets its .seal 
On the mother's one child! O, what balsam shall heal 
The deep wound? Ah, it cometh, in message as old 
As our era; and yet she would have this but told 
In the simple words spoken as man never spake, 
On the cedar-lined shores of Genessareth's lake. 

V. 
Good t'riend, prithee, scorn never the old, nor the worn. 
From the worn womb of precedent progress is born. 
" Out of old fieldes cometh, fro year unto year. 
The new corn," quoth the " morning star" singer of cheer. 
" Out of old bookes cometh," likewise, " in good fayth, 
" All new science men lere." Nothing " Dan Chaucer" .saith 
Hath a meaning more pregnant than this. 

Old and worn 
Are the sunlight; the rainbow; Orion; the morn, 
Witli its golden aurora; the purpling sun.set; 
The glad moonlight; heaven's arch, all in diamonds set. 
Robing night in the glory of creation's dawn. 
Worn is speech, sweet and golden as Chrysostom's own. 
Worn are truths uttered under the olive-trees' shade 
By the Master, of time-seasoned maxims who made 
A sure bridge over which mortals freed might be l)orne 
From earth's crudeness to Heaven's courts olden and worn. 

VI. 

. . . Yes, the years journej'ed on. To Mark Landis they passed 
Slowly, wearily. Still his attention was pressed, 



294 HivI.lCN. 

With ail c\xT-iiicrcasing' devotion, upon 
The l)ridc long ago chosen — the sharp, jealous one, 
Who had found him a tried and a true liushand-man; 
And her bountiful gratitude now overran, 
Giving more than he asked in the day of his zest, 
When she doubted his faith, and put him to the test. 
He had taken front rank among land-tilling men: 
He was now Farmer Landis; and none now, as then, 
Spoke of him as a make-believe farmer, or sneered 
At his soft hands, pale face, or aesthetic-cut beard. 

VII. 

With good reason! For years a round dozen had run 
O'er his liead, since, his country's work faithfully done, 
From the war he came, bending anew to his task. 

VIII. 

"And where was his tul)ercular phthisis?" You ask? 

Tell me, where are the thousand and one theories 

Of the medical wiseacres, blown on each breeze? 

Why, ril prove to you, friend, if you have any doubt, 

That you have meningitis, or t}-phus, or gout; 

Or that you have l)een poisoned, or haven't, or have, 

Or have not, just now one of your feet in the grave. 

Bring a case in some court, and subpoena therein, 

As experts, sundr\- sons of old Galen; begin. 

By some shrewd lawyer stating the point that is sought 

To establish, then ply them with questions well wrough'. 

In the smithy juridical: and you shall take 

This my head for a football if 1 do not make 

Good my word. 

IX. 

" Prove all things; hold fast that which is good. 
Grand logician before great Agrippa who stood ! 



BEAITY. 2U5 

Modern magi lia\-e broken thy maxim in twain; 

And they now, by experiment, simple and plain. 

And .stout swearing-, prove all things, and hold fast to none — 

Any longer, that is, than till sought ends are won. 

X. 

The\' will swear a man into the grave, then be sworn 

That in sweetness of life he laughs dying to scorn. 

They will swear that he suffered a torturing death, 

A slow poison with measured draughts sucking" his breath; 

And then, having- thus " done him up" ghastly and grim, 

With a "presto" will smoothe out each feature and liml), 

And through death-passage peaceful as zc]:)h\r's soft kiss 

Testify- he left earth for the regions of bliss. 

The oesophagus deftly they'll turn inside out, 

And its healthfulness .show you bej'ond any doubt; 

Then, the same organ shifting, in turn, outside in, 

Clearl}' prove it as foul as original sin. 

To the depths of the lungs diving down, they'll discern 

Horrors dread in tubercular shape; then, to earn 

A fat fee, ob.serve in the same organs the flush 

Of such health as a druggist would put to the blush. 

XI. 

Old Jack Falstaff declared, to clinch one of his tales. 

He'd " swear truth out of England" ; and Scripture details 

How the wretch rVnanias, sad sottl-wreck who made, 

" To the Holy Ghost lied,'' in a real-estate trade. 

But experts of to-day, to prop pleas, faiths, and biases, 

Double-discount fat Falstaffs and false Auaniases. 



296 HKLKN. 



XII. 

A I. K T T 1-; R I' R ( ) :\I T 1 1 V. C I T Y. 

Mv DiCAK Landis: 

I know you're a heniiil out there; 

Though we find you in here (where your calls are too rare) 

As agreeable as one could ever desire. 

And the object of this missive is to inquire 

If you could be induced, for the nonce, nn- old chum, 

T(^ emerge from your cell in your treasured farm home. 

And a service perform for old friendship's sake, such 

As I hope would be troubling you not overmuch. 

My wife's cousin is staying in your neighborhood, 

Visiting an old schoolmate. Now, will it obtrude 

Too much on your reserve, to ask kindly that you 

To our friend an occasional courtesy show 

In her sojourn, most likely monotonous, there? 

. . . My wife tells me to say to you that Miss Adair- 

That is she — is engaged, or, at least, understood 

To be, her Jia/ia' being just now abroad; 

So there's not the least danger of any mistaking 

Of these kind attentions of yours. Of match-making, 

Thank fate, my good wife is as free as of robbery. 

This scheme is no mask, Mark, for that kind of jobbery. 

The visit will be one of months, I believe. 

Now let's see you your first reputation retrieve 

For true gallantry . . . But you were ne'er as adept 

In this line as was I. To your studies you ke])t 

When in Florence, oft while upon Arno's fair tide 

I was riding, alas, as I'm wonted to ride 

On life's circumstance-tide to this day. 



BKAUTV. -iU7 

Ah, those times! 
They come back to me mellowed like hallowed church chimes. 
What fine castles we built in the air in those days! 
Flown, all flown ! What then cared we for blame or for praise? 
We were going- to plant, then, new standards of art, 
From whose principles I was the first to depart! 
We were right, my dear fellow, malgrc my desertion! 
Had you, who effected my earl}- conversion 
To those maxims eternal of art and of life, 
Kept the ranks, I should never have paled in the strife, 
But have fought on till now, and have possibly won 
Something smacking of fame, which thus far I've not done. 
. . . GhostU- shadows of youth! Yourself on a farm, and I — 
I ha\e never the pluck had once grandly to try! 
To become a mere drudge is so eas}- in this. 
The most jealous of all human callings, and miss 
The great prizes that fame is bestowing! 

Old friend,— 
The one censor to whom I would ever attend, — 
Leave your plow, and resume here the palette and brush, 
And let's try and regain wdiat we've lost in the rush 
Of the tide. It is not yet too late, though our youth 
Lie forever behind us. We still have the truth, — 
That shall ever be young. We'll grow into its heart. 
And baptize ourselves over again in true art. 
Do not laugh at my fancies, old bo\'! 

. . . Ah! 'tis just 
As I feared! Naught will do. but this wife of mine must 
To this note, now^ too long, add a post.script; and Heaven 
Alone knows how long that will be! Always, 

Trklevvn. 



2 '.IS 



hhi.i:n. 



I'OSTSCKirT. 



As a hint, he has left, here, but small space for me! 

What I wanted to add; — and I'm sure there need be 

Not so much ado made over so small a matter: — 

("A note!" That's like niaii! What would he call a letter? )- 

. . . The truth is, a postscript is often the cream 

Of a message; 'tis like the last, ling-ering gleam 

Of a sunset — the holiest moment of day; 

Or like fond farewells sjioken ere friends sail away 

O'er wide seas for the years; or like chorused refrain 

Of a song; or the hymn of the reapers when grain 

Has been garnered. 

A postcript bears home to the heart 
Sentiments onl>- meet to be uttered apart; 
Weaves a selvage of weft that true sympathy brings; 
Turns a faith-hem to guard against heart-ravelings; 
Takes up stitches we've dropped in the knitting of life; 
Retrieves wrongs done in heat of tlie world's busy strife; 
Reaches down into depths of the spirit, and there 
Plants a l)enison tender as infant's lisped prayer; 
Rounds the turf where weeps stricken affection afresh; 
Pours sweet balm where care's fetters eat into the Hesh; 
Parted friendship recalls to hearts sundered through years; 
And for love mediates through smiles, pleadings, or tears. 
Blest be postscripts! 

. . . 'Twasonl}a word, 1 declare, 
That I wanted to add, which is this: Miss Adair 
Has for horses a passionate love. On this head 
Nothing further to you, I presume, need be .said. 
... I shall join cousin Blanche near the close of her stay, 
And learn then what reports are returned of the way 



BE AT -TV. 299 

Yon acquit yourself of your enjoined gallantry. 
I'ntil then, with sincerest regards, 

Mrs. T. 

XIII. 

Landis winced when this letter he read; but no more 

Could he ever have faltered, when, during the war 

Came for duty of peril official behest, 

Than now hesitate over this kindly request. 

Twas from friends that were olden, from friends that were tried: 

This sufficed; and, to friends never false, he complied. 



XIV. 

Blanche Adair was a blonde. Now, faith, this is to say 

Little more of my new character, in the way 

Of description, than merely to state that this blOnde 

Was a woman. But when I have said she was crowned 

With a head of light hair wath which silk would compare 

But as commonest wool with a fleece from Cashmere; 

When her skin I've pronounced so transparently white. 

That the blue veins lined arms, neck, and brow, and the bright, 

Rare, and classical beauty of form and of face 

Set off with "such effect as no sculptor the grace 

And no painter the deftness had found to portray; 

When I've said, in her soft hazel eyes a look lay 

Which w^as laughter that into sweet sii-nshine was wrought, 

And remained there, as glowing as poet's best thought, — 

Some idea may be formed of the style of a blonde. 

Who her jauntiest habit one afternoon donned, 

With Mark L,andis to ride, who appeared with a pair 

Of such steeds as to her were as pleasing as rare; 



•>U0 iiKr.Ex. 

While her ga\-, " just-too-loveh--lbr-any-thing" hat, 
And her smile, as in saddle she gracefulh- sat, 
Gave a challent^'e to man and to love. 

XV. 

Landis thought, 
While adjusting her boot in the stirrup, that naught 
In the shape of a foot or an ankle (that he 
Should have happened the latter to note, I agree 
Is a pity profound) had e'er burst with surprise 
On an artist's admiring and critical eyes, 
In life, marble, or oil, more superbly outlined. 

XVI. 

Yet not this was the thought dominating his mind, 

As he mounted his horse and they galloped away; 

But on days he was musing, when one just as gay, 

And as beautiful, graceful, and bright as this one 

By his side thiis oft rode. . . . How the years had since run! 

XVII. 

— " We are already friends, and I like you right well I" 
Awoke him from the moment-brief memory spell: 
And he turned, somewhat shocked at so frank a declarement, 
And eyed Blanche; 

Who explained: 

" M}' warm words of endearment, 
I trust you'll perceive, were but meant for the horse 1" 
. . . 'Tis sufficient to mention, that in the whole cour.se 
Of that ride, (or of anj' one afterward taken,) 
Him twice from no brown study had she to waken. 

X\III. 

Landis found not an auditor, like Helen Graves, 
Satisfied to be borne on the unresting waves 




.= 2 



3^ « Q 



* c " 



S2 « C 

= C — 

^ CO -5 

S u « 



.-r: _^ « 



^^ 



BEAUTY. 303 

Of discourse, stirred by breath of his will arbitrary; 
But one quite disposed to start currents contrary, 
In glee watch the surgy commotion brought on. 
And then pour the rich oil of her humor upon 
The aroused and tumultuous billows of thought. 
Yet ere many encounters with her, he had caught 
The true trend of her mind, had adapted himself 
To the real situation, and laid on the shelf 
Metaphysics, and ethics, and prophecy too — 
A decidedly prudent and shrewd thing to do, 

XIX. 

For of times that shall be, when the great, teeming womb 
Of the future shall give forth its j-oung, — when shall bloom 
Next the century plant of philosophy, — when 
Golden wisdom shall be made incarnate again, — 
When on magi the new star of truth shall have beamed, — 
Blanche Adair on her soft, balmy pillow ne'er dreamed; 
And her blue-veined and pearly-fair breasts never heaved 
With inspirings from things of to-morrow received. 

XX. 

Of the earth ver\- earthy was Miss Blanche Adair; 
But likewise is the rose, with its blossoms so fair; 
And likewise is the mavis that sings on the lea. 
And the brooklet that murmuring runs to the sea. 
If, like them, she breathed only the breath of to-day: 
If, like them, she loved earth, with its taint of decay; 
Yet like them she was fragrant, and rhythmic, and sweet, 
And like them diffu.sed joy where'er wandered her feet. 

XXI. 

So Mark Landis adjusted his speech to this type 
Of earth's sentient felicity, real and ripe; 



3(14 HKLKX. 

And he told her of beauty, as artist could tell, 

And talked with her of taste, and of music's charmed spell, 

And of truth in the concrete, the right and the wrong 

Of things which to utilitj-'s issues belong; 

Of fine horses, good horsemanship, cattle of blood: 

Of things current in that no wise dull neighborhood; 

Of the live men and women who people To-Day: 

Of society (quite in a gossipy way. 

And so much so that Mark with himself was surprised, 

And, from all that she had by her friends been advised, 

None the less thus was Blanche); of the drama; of art 

(In its phases ()l)jective); and eke of the heart — 

Of the average heart human, considered as one 

Of life's factors connnercial. 

XXII. 

And here, be it known, 
Mark discerned her to be well-informed, and au fait. 
And so keenly discriminating, in her way, 
With such store of sound, shrewd, worldly wisdom indued. 
And so strongl}' with common-sense ethics imbued. 
That he found himself listening oftener, and longer. 
Than of one so much older, and wiser, and stronger. 
In years, mind, and purpose, would scarce be supposed, — 
More especially one understood to have closed 
With the opposite sex all relations, and drawn 
The heart's curtains most closely and carefull>' down. 

XXIII. 

At least, this was the view which the gossips all took; — 
And whoever hath found on this earth one lone nook 
Where the gossip comes not, will please " rise u]) and stand 
Until counted"; for if, in some strange clime or land, 



BEArTV. oOo 

Such a spot there may be, let it be marked with gold, 
In books bound all in ])earl let the story be told, 
And in far-sounding strains of bard-laureate's song. 
And let seraphs in azure the echoes prolong! 

. . . They — the gossips, not seraphs, nor bards — said: 

" 'Twas strange 
That the General should in so short a time change 
From recluse to gay, S})ruce cavalier; 'twas to pa}' 
A poor compliment to the attractions that la}- 
(If he'd had keen discernment) here at his own door, 
To chase butterflies — and suc/i a thing, to be sure! — 
One all feathers and paint! And they call her 3. beaut}'! 
To expose such a jade is a most sacred duty! 
Yet that he should be caught in so flimsy a net 
Is a mar\-el the queerest one ever }^et met. 
Of the grave and thegidd}-, my! what a sad blending!" 

XXIV. 

. . . " But whither," my muse asks, " is our hero tending?" 



CANTO SEVENTH. 



RESIGNATION. 



rrfd pearl s jgerjteceisl. 
1. 
The sea slugs straius of mystic meaning ; 

The weird refrains the wild winds swell ; 
But sea nor wind my wish o'erweeniug 

Accord, and me their import tell. 
Then soul of mine within me says : 
" In patience wait the flower of days. 
II. 
I wait ; and, lo ! a guest unbidden, 

Great Nature, in some silent hour. 
Conies to my heart, in gloom long hidden, 

And grants it Pentecostal power ; 
And thus the songs of wind and sea 
Are rendered to my soul and me. 

III. 
Yet what the purport of their message 

I may not, in words spoken, tell, 
Though close my spirit cons each passage, 

And all the lays my heart learns well ; 
But this I know, and this I sing : 
Their strains peace passing utterance bring. 

II. 
Thus, upon the white beach of the storm-breaking bay, 
Sitting, watching the gay fisher-boys at their play. 



RRSir.XATION. 307 

And the fishermen mending their nets, and their wives 
Gleaning drii'twood from wrecks, (as from strewn wrecks of 

li\es 
The world e\'er is gathering driftwood to feed 
Fires k)w bnrning of lone human hearts in their need,) 
Sang, to rhythm of power-spent storms' sobbing waves. 
The enlarged, bettered, proved, fire-refined Helen Graves, — 
The girl still in the woman revealed, and the soul 
Through the years but achie\-ing a gentler control, — 
Sang, while, lovingly listening there at her side. 
Sat the dear child of promise. Celeste, the large-eyed: 
Who thus said: 

" Darling mother, of all the grand strains 
Of the grandest of singers, with chorused refrains. 
That we heard in Palermo, or Naples, or Rome, 
I heard none like the dear ones I hear at my home. 
Yes, of all the sweet singings your songs are the best!" 
Thus with downright truth flattered the dark -eyed Celeste. 

III. 
Surely, this is no longer a child's voice we hear. 
That so soothingly melts in the fond mother's ear; 
And so thought Helen Rolfe, as .she close to her breast 
The l)right bud of developing womanhood pres.sed. 
" Ah! full fast does she ripen 'neath this southern sun; 
All too soon her fledged heart wnll its flight wing alone; 
All too early life's lessons her soul will have read; 
All too quickly her feet love's red wine-press will tread; 
All too oft will her spirit the bitterwort taste, 
vSpringing e'er by life's wayside, 'mid bloom or 'mid waste!" 

IV. 
Lightly had the years touched Helen Rolfe, nestling there, 
With her one tender charge, and her one tender care, — 



oOS in:i.Kx. 

NestliiiiL;' there, 'neath the shelter of brown, \-ine-cla(l hills, 
Safe from world -breath that wears and from world-j^aze that 
chills. 

V. 

Richard had at times mended so strongly, that the>', 
Convalescence inviting, rode cnit on the bay, 
And rocked him on its breast, in the fishermen's boats; 
Then made longer trips, touching at charmed, classic spots 
On the shores of that broad mid-earth sea which are dear 
To all hearts Europe's dream of the past who revere; 
And 'twas during these jaunts Celeste heard ^•oices sing 
With whose melody- magic fame's corridors ring. 

VI. 

Helen still at her art wrought; nor did she neglect 

Still romances, and legends, and songs to collect, 

From the natives as well of Provence as from those 

Of yet other lands through which the storied stream flows 

Which the present refreshes with cooling waves brought 

From the times when in earnestness men wrought and fought, 

When, thotigh working and fighting in shadows, yet they 

In their earnestness left lessons rich for to-day. 

In all these recreations Celeste had a part, 

Who a love had begun to develop for art, 

And those other gifts wherein the mother had shone, 

Her instruction, thus far, having been Helen's own. 

VII. 

A strange ballad, one day, Helen heard, which struck cords 

In her heart that long vibrated; and, while the words 

Of the song in Romance dialect had been sung, 

vShe observed that its measure appeared to have sprung 

From the skalds of the far Scandinavian climes; 

And, as best she could, thns she translated the rhymes: 



RESIGNATKJN. SOD 



AX AI.I.KGORY. 
1. 

The wind l)le\v fair; llic wind blew free; 
The wind blew over a sun-bright sea. 

My ship was trim; my ship was staunch; 
A conielier never did mortal launch . 

The wlieel by the helmsman Faith was manned; 
He held the rudder with steadfast hand. 

The freight of my ship was the dreams of youth; 
The silken streamer was legended "Truth." 

The master Hope went into command; 

The bright bow of promise the 1)lue .sky .spanned. 

Sole owner was I of keel and crew, 

And lord of the master and helmsman true. 

We sailed out into the beckoning West; 

We shaped our course for the Isles of the Blest. 

In those fair realms, in the heart enshrined, 
The Balm Content I had hoped to find. 

II. 
The wind blew strong; the wind blew high; 
The wind blew out of a darkened sky. 

The ribs of the good ship creaked and ground; 
The waves of the great sea sobbed and moaned. 

The roar of the blast still louder grew; 

It drowned the shouts of master and crew. 

'Mid bursting of billows and lightning's glare. 
We waited our fate in mute despair. 

III. 
The storm went by. Our sails were rent, 
Our cordage loosed, our strong masts bent. 



310 HELKN. 



The lielnisnian stood with a saddened face; 
The master moved with a slackened pace. 

... A Mentor old, unknown to me, 
Had shipped in our vessel's company. 

He said: "Who trusts to the ocean's tide, 
Alike must storm and calm abide. 

"The heart that quails at the angry blast 
Deserves not peace when the storm be past." 

IV. 

The isles I sought in the Occident 
Grew not for me the Balm Content. 

The air was burdened with indolence; 
A vas^ue disquiet oppressed the sense. 

I sighed for the wild and angry gales 
That swept with vigor my own green vales. 

I weighed my anchor, and out of the West 
I sailed with a ballast of dull unrest. 

My Mentor said: " Thou'lt find no strand 
With sweeter yield than thy parent land." 

I said: " I'll pass to the suidands fair, 
And make the .search for my balsam there." 

V. 

1 sailed full long the Southern seas, 
With smiling sky, with favoring breeze. 

1 found no isle, I touched no shore. 

Where grew the tree my l)alm that bore. 

My Mentor said: " Thy soul doth tire: 

Thou art no nearer thj- soul's desire. 

" Not seas of the vSouth, not isles of the West, 

Yield what springs only within thy breast." 

VI. 

With aching heart, with feverous brow, 
I homeward turned my vessel's prow. 



KESUiNATION. oil 

Onoe more the wind blew fair and free, 
Once- more the sunshine mantled the sea. 

The helmsman steered with a trembling har.d; 
The master wielded a weak command. 

The crew were weary; the ship was worn; 
The faded streamer in twain was torn. 

My strens^'th had vanished; my pride had fled; 
Ah, me! How the years of my life had spedl 

VII. 

I saw the l)ounds of my native lea; 
My heart beat high with expectancy. 

Moss hung my natal roof-tree o'er; 

The form of a stranger stood in the door. 

But Nature's face was all unchanged; 
The smiles of Heaven unstinted ranged. 

The grass was green, the birds' songs gay; 
The rivulet rippled its life away. 

All blooms of the field their fragrance shed; 
" Crod lives for aye!" my soul to me said. 

Then into my spirit sweet peace was sent; 

And mv heart was healed bv the Balm Content. 



VIII. 
From these jatints Richard often had strengthened rettirned, 
And in .spirit refreshed, till at length now he j'earned 
To go back to the land of his birth : and they made 
Preparations to leave the qtiaint town's silent shade ; 
When the overstrained mental exertion brotight on 
A relapse ; and the hope, so brief-seasoned, was gone. 

IX. 

Then the dread leaden tiger, which crouching long laj' 
At the gate of the heart, making spring for its prey, 



31'i HKI.lvN. 

vSeized \ipon it; the strength of the remnant of life 
Yielded swiftly; and Richard Rolfe knew that the strife 
Xeared its close. 

X. 

From his window, in antumn's soft air, 
He saw grapes purpling 'neath thrifty vine-dressers' care 
On brown hillsides, safe sheltered from blasts of the north ; 
Saw the rill from the near mountain's side gushing forth ; 
Heard blithe carols of birds, which familiar had grown 
To his ear in the white years that o'er him had flown 
In his love-prison there ; the endeared incense breathed 
Of the floral wealth round his low, trellised cot wreathed, 
Overfreighting the air with a grateful perfume ; 
Saw the sorrowing peasants, in deep sympathy. 
With steps measured and noiseless his doorway pass by ; 
Felt the southern sun's warmth, that had long bathed his room 
With the crimson of sunsets and dawns' flaming gold, 
Which for him were now numbered; and, 1)rave as of old, 
Smiled as niart>rs once smiled in arenas of Rome, 
Grouped in waiting for hungry wild beasts forth to come. 
Though no cure for his body earth's stores can supply, 
And in fate's book 'tis writ, Richard Rolfe has to die, 
Richard Rolfe"s soul, undaunted, looks fate in the face. 
And sublimely greets death with a hero's own grace. 



XI. 

Bending over his couch were the two dear to him. 
As life's light in the gathering shadows grew dim, 
There was something he whispered for Helen t(^ hear, 
Which was meant for none else than her privileged ear. 



KESK; NATION. 



■■nii 



She knelt down : and, while Richard was clasping her hand, 

There came down the right angel and severed earth's band ; 

Then, for one supreme moment of joyous relief, 

In a sunburst of glory was dimmed terrene grief; 

And, on prayer breathed by her his enfranchised soul rode 

Out through ambient ether, and up to its God. 




CANTO EIGHTH 



Kl'l.MKDILKSSXESS. 



I. 

The old Wrenthams, of Wrentham Hall, near to the sea, 
111 the rich shire of Devon, were high of degree, 
And were clean of repute. They had served from far back. 
Ill the council and field, without shame, without fleck ; 
And sole heir was Ray Wrentham to all the demesne, 
Where his race had served, flourished, and high honors seen, 
Through the brightest of ages that England has known, 
And had done their full portion to build her renown. 
He was fair of complexion, with eyes of deep blue, 
And with great wealth of hair, of a bright aul)urn hue; 
Squarely stood on his feet, and was lusty of limb: 
Thus the pure Saxon type was developed in him. 

II. 
And Ray Wrentham, of Wrentham Hall, blue-eyed and fair. 
Was the lover, devoted, of Miss Blanche Adair. 
You'd of course like to know, reader, how it should come, 
That this Englishman wandered so far from his home. 
Thus a sweetheart to woo, when the land of his birth 
Teemed with some of the loveliest women of earth. 

III. 
It was thus that Ray Wrentham had met Blanche Adair : 
They descended the Rhine on a day aught but fair, 



REMEDILESSNESS. 



315 



Whtn the heavens, ill-tuned, upon frowning seemed bent, 

And the heart, sympathizing, breathed dull discontent. 

All the passengers under the spell seemed to be 

Of the foul-weather spirit, save one coterie 

Of choice Germans engaged upon subjects profound, 

Whose depths never a lead-line of sailor could sound, 

Mingling themes ot 2BaI)rI)eit, IJtoigfeit, iinb fo iociter, 

To the Teuton so dear when the spirit is I)eiter, 

With such topics as Srieg, Slaiicr, Siiiljiit, 3iciteret, 

And those touching the brew of the best 33vaucrei. 

IV. 

With her traveling part}^ entire, Blanche had grown 
So insufferably ennuye, that a yawn 
In despair escaped her. 

At this moment she caught 
The blue eyes of one tortured likewise ; and she thought : 
'' If those fine orbs were now closely fixed on my own, 
I don't think that the hours would so dully drag on ; 
And I doubt whether I should of yawning once dream; 
While Sir Blue Eyes from gaping-bonds I could redeem: 
So I think." 

Thiswise thinking, she rose from her seat, 
And, with guide-book in hand — " last edition, complete" — 
And while most of her friends were in slumber's still deeps, 
W^ith intentness surveyed Father Rhine's castled steeps. 

V. 
Not long thus had she stood, when the blue-eyed approached, 
And a meet topic for conversation thus broached. 
After having saluted her with such a grace 
As of seeming presumption removed every trace: 
" If I may be forgiven for what might .seem rude. 
And you'd kindly permit me so far to intrude 



'^l'> IIKI.KX. 

On \(>ur pri\-acy, i)leadiiig' this \-illaiiious weather, 

Which makes ns all disiiuil and (hnnpish tooether, 

I should like to contribnte \vhate\er I nuu' 

To enliven the gloom of this saturnine daw 

If agreeable, I will endeavor for you 

To point out, as I may be enabled to do, 

Some scenes worth)- of stud}', as we shall pass ou- 

Views with which my sight very familiar has grown, 

As I've many times traveled this route heretofore." 

VI. 
" "Twould contribute much to my enjoyment, I'm sure," 
Him thus answered, with frankness and grace in her air, 
And with no trace of prudery, sweet Blanche Adair. 

VII. 

Then he said : 

" 'Tis too bad, the poor guide-l^ooks to scold 
As we do. They are useful, and helpful, though old ; 
And, like friends on whose benefits daily we count. 
We are apt to misreckon the gentle amount 
Of the good that they do. It is true that they tell 
Their tales all in one fashion, and equally dwell 
On each theme, great or small, whate'er space it may fill 
In earth's records, as if each were ground through a mill. 
But mankind feed on grists; and the few only strive 
On fresh pabulum mental or moral to thrive. 
To the many these stories teem richl}- with zest, 
All the faculties charming with thrilled interest. 
Though to some they drag on like the wearisome drone 
Of the bee, or the katydid's dull monotone. 

VIII. 

" If a guide-book could be for the separate taste 
Of each voyager written, what infinite waste 



RKMEDII.E-SSNESS. 31? 

Of good paper aiul ink would the sated world see, 
And what Rhines of rhetorical wash would there be ! 
Let us thank the good fates that we have nothing worse 
In the way of guide-books for depleting the purse ; 
F'or they're sureh" more honest than most books we read, 
In that these spread no nets with intent to mislead; 
And, while half that they give is pure legend, as such 
They present it, and not in the shape of a crutch 
Crippled logic to prop. For, with all we can do. 
Guide-books will be guide-books." 

IX. 

— " And be nothing like 30U !" 
Thought, but certainly did not once venture to say, 
The pleased Blanche, as the Englishman chatted away. 

X. 

Then he told, as the}- passed, of traditions wdiich hung 
Castled ruins around that to storied heights clung ; 
And showed what was yet left of the glories of old ; 
What to-day's green enrobed, and what yesterday's mold; 
What tales anchorage had in historical truth, 
And what ones baseless were as the fancies of youth. 
And these things all he said in .so pleasant a way, 
That what had been begun as a stupid, dull day. 
Though the weather was poor as one ever will .see, 
An enjoyable, red-letter day proved to be ; 
And Blanche learned of the Rhine and its castle-crowned 
shores, 

And of legends that live in their myth-mingled stores. 

More than she could from guide-books have possibly gained, 

Had she o'er them a fortnight in deep study strained. 



318 HELEN. 

XI. 

"Twas in this way they met. 

lint, in'ay, don't nnderstand 
That in love with each other they fell out of hand, — 
Not at all ; for they both were quite wide-awake souls. 
And each somewhat had .seen of love's breakers and shoals. 
No, no; each was alive, and alert, and on guard ; 
And in love at first sight falling each held absurd. 

XII. 

And yet, nevertheless, did the young English squire 
Get so deeply enlisted as soon to inquire 
The direction the group to which Blanche was attached 
Was to take, and him.self thereupon he detached 
From his own party, and followed hers. 

And til us sprang, 
Like Minerva from Jove's odd occipital pang, 
A .stroug-born, full-armed, first-class flirtation, extending 
O'er continents twain ; for when Blanche, her tour ending, 
Returned to her home in the West, soon, behold ! 
Thither Ray Wrentham came, his love-leaguer to hold. 

XIII. 

It was one of the rarest flirtations that ever have been 

Between woman and man on this green earth j-et seen. 

Blanche Adair, of a truth, had of suitors no lack: 

One might say that they came, as they went, at her beck ; 

For, as fast as the doom of the old lovers rang, 

L,ike heads fabled of Hydra the new ones up sprang ; 

And the old ones watched ever her heart's swinging gate, 

Like the spirits that outside of Paradi.se wait. 

. . . And, right into the midst of this plethora, came 

From afar the proud lover with long-honored name. 



KKMKDILESSNESS. .'319 

XIV. 

The new knight in the joust was the favorite now ; 
Ihit how long would this last? Not a soul could avow. 
Wrentham thus in the contest was clearly ahead, 
When by tidings called home of a relative dead. 

XV. 

And this brings us to when, in the blush of the year, 

Asa fate, one might say, to Mark Landis's sphere. 

In her radiant beauty, the sweet Blanche Adair 

Came, to light with her presence the neighborhood there, 

The vicinity gossips to set by the ears. 

And our farmer to rouse from the dreams of the years. 

XVI. 

... It was strange — was it not? — in the farthest degree, 
That two beings from opposite shores of life's sea — 
That two natures so little alike, and apart 
So extremely in mind, and in soul, and in heart, 
Should be thus thrown together. And stranger it was. 
That each seemed to be well entertained. 

Mental laws. 
Ye philosophers, seek not too close to expound, 
Lest phenomenal facts all your wisdom confound. 
There are things, in the realm of the heart and the brain, 
That the angels them.selves would scarce try to explain. 

XVII. 

Blanche extended her visit so long, that there came 

From the city some calls from the moths round her flame 

That impatiently fluttered ; and these only served 

To Mark's own .self to show, what had been well observed 

By his friends, that his mind was becoming al)Sorbed 

In this luminant being — this planet, full-orbed. 

Of etherial beautv ; for he was disturlx-d 



320 HELKX. 

By these moths as should ne'er be one so unperturbed 

By affairs of this trivial nature as he, 

The confirmed bachelor, was reputed to be. 

XVIII. 

But all visits, in time, must approach to an end. 

As did that made by Miss Blanche Adair to her friend ; 

And, as promised, came Mrs. Trelevyn, to learn 

How Mark had his commission discharged, and discern 

The effect Blanche's beauty had had upon him. 

And if Ray Wrentham's star had grown anywise dim ; 

For, although no match-maker, as had been premised 

At the start, whereof Mark was distinctly advised, — 

Notwithstanding this, Mrs. Trelevyn was human, 

And Mrs. Trelevyn, throughout, was all woman. 

XIX. 

"Pray, Blanche, open your confidence-doors, as of old, 

And the net yield of this new acquaintance unfold. 

What impression has our friend the General wrought 

On your heart, or your soul, or 3'our sense, or your thought? 

Has he kept himself closed, like an 03'ster, to you, 

Or expanded and beamed, as he only can do?" 

XX. 

Just then one of those moods seized upon Blanche Adair, 
Of quite heart-to-heart frankness, with women so rare ; 
And she said to her friend, while the light in her eyes 
Showed an earnestness filling the friend with surprise: 

XXI. 

"Cousin, had I met him in the days that are gone, — 

Had I known him ere into world-ways I had grown, — 

I had loved him through life to the dimness of death! 

I should then have known something of treasures earth hath 

For the faithful and true ; for I could have been true — 



REMHDILESSNE.SS. o'Jl 

O, SO true ! — to a love 'iieatli h/s nursing that grew. 

. . . Him I first thought to master; — indeed, for a while, 

He seemed captive to be 'neatli the charm of my smile; 

But ere long the supremacy he had assumed, 

And he conquered me, clamped me ! Strong eloquence bloomed 

In his speech; power masterful marked all his mien. 

What could woman do 'gainst such a will, so serene, 

All-assumptive, all-holding? What could Blanche Adair 

Do, but fall in the dust and pay him homage there?" 

XXII. 

"Cousin Blanche! What means this? Why, dear, I had 

supposed 
That your heart was Ray Wrentham's, that he had proposed, 
And that all was arranged." 

XXIII. 

' ' What webs we women weave 1 
How ourselves do we and one another deceive! 
Cousin mine, in my lessons in world-wisdom, gained 
At expense of the freshness of heart that once reigned 
In my germinant being, this fact I have found : 
That of all the heart -strangers in life's broadened bound,. 
The most widely removed oft in confidence true 
Are female bosom-friends. 

" I disclose now^ to you, 
While the humor is on nie, that, having once met 
This man, all other men I would gladly forget. 
Had I never known him, I could W^rentham have loved — 
Loved well-nigh with true love. But your kindness has proved 
Only cruelty to me, though meant for the best." 

XXIV. 

" I don't see," said the cousin, "since you've thus confessed 
To these feelings, why you cannot still make exchange 



:»22 HELEN. 

Of Ray W'renthani for Landis. For you 'twere not strange, 

If you'll pardon nie for the remark ; while the heart 

Of the Briton I think would scarce break with the smart 

Of dismissal. And though he possesses, of course, 

High birth, fortune, and standing, yet Landis' s purse, 

I am told, is well filled, and my husband thinks yet 

He may gain some distinction. And do not forget 

That love's sonictliing, though only a fractional i)art. 

To be thought of in things that affect hand and heart." 

XXV. 

" Ah, my worldly-wise cousin," said Blanche, "you've left out 

One important factor in this scheme you have wrought. 

I have probed this man's heart, and I know what is there. 

At least, what is //c/ there — love for poor Blanche Adair. 

I've no doubt he is pleased wnth me : why, a crowned king 

Could not fail to be pleased with me, did I but bring 

To bear on him the art I've employed on your friend — 

The art which to us women oft evil stars send. 

But I tell you, dear cousin, I've reached for the heart 

Of Mark Landis! In this I but played an old part; 

I laid snares for it ; lured it on ; angled for it. 

Any other heart long since had had to submit ; 

For you know xoxy well that I've failed never yoX 

Heart of man co subdue when about it I set." 

XXVI. 

" Yes, I know," archly answered the cousin ; " like tent 
Of some Indian brave, which his scalps ornament, 
Your wigwam with full many scalp-locks is adorned ; 
And by your renowned prowess I should have been warned, 
My dear Blanche ; yet I had not expected that you 
Would the war-path with General Landis pursue." 



KKMKDILKSSNESS. 323 

XXVII. 

* ' Then you should not have brought us together, ' ' Blanche said ; 

" But, n'iniportc ; it is over. The error you've made 

I sincerely forgive. But that you may now know 

That I ha^■e a heart left, let me sa}- this to you : 

That to-day, as you see me, the proud Blanche Adair, 

In the world so absorbed, that to her seems so fair, — 

I would all exchange gladly, were Landis as poor 

As the drudge whose toil scarce keeps the wolf from the door ; 

Yea, I'd give up Ray Wreutham and his rich demesne, 

For this heart all of gold." 



XXVIII. 

'Twas asked, what did it mean 
That Ray Wrentham home tarried so long? Time had flown 
On slow pinions with gay Blanche Adair while had grown 
Into serious months the wide .gap since he left 
For his home, and her heart felt bereft, 
Till she met with Mark Landis, since when she confessed 
To herself that that organ had known small unrest. 
Although charming Ray's letters had been, yet they failed 
To account for his lengthened delay. He had sailed, 
He declared, on a brief return bent, yet leaves sere 
In the old Devon woods had begun to appear. 
Though scarce formed when he landed at home. 

Rumor stirred, 
Breathing of an attraction abroad ; yet Blanche heard 
But to laugh at the legend. And still there was pique 
Just the slightest; and more strongly then did she seek 



3--^ HELEN. 

Tt) ]>leasc Laiidis, whose calls, at her city home made, 
While not fre(iuent, were rare not as angels' calls ])aid. 

XXIX. 

Nor did these efforts cease after Wrentham returned 

And renewed hi.s devoirs, which, of course, when he learned 

Of a rival, had Ijut more demonstrative grown ; 

While her ])oise Blanche regained. 

So the play still went on. 
As plays numberless round us proceed day by day, 
On the variant stage of this world, where display 
With concealment, truth clear as the dawn's virgin light, 
With truth's converse, enrobed in her livery bright, 
And love true as the trust of the martyr in death, 
With love's counterfeit, robed in the vestments of faith, 
All combine the chiaro osciiro to give. 
Which art needs to make dramas the lives that we live- 



CANTO NINTH. 



EMBERS. 



I. 

A grand part\- : the finest the season had seen. 
Gathered there, and commingled, 'mid glitter and sheen, 
Were high genius, and culture, and valor, and worth : 
There were dignified bearing, and cognizant birth ; 
There were taste, elegance, fashion, dcUcatcsse ; 
There were gentleness, tenderness, sweetness, and grace ; 
And refinement's true charm; and bright, heavenl}^ smiles 
And clear, silvery laughter; and beauty's soft wiles. 
There were all of these, with an infusion, not small. 
Of their opposites ; making a part integral, 
A true section of life, with its good and its bad. 
And its fine and its coarse, and its joyous and sad. 
And its true and its fal.se, and its substance and show. 
And its l)liss bright as day, and its neatly masked woe. 

II. 
Of our friends quite a number, good reader, were there. 
First of all, white and fair, was the gay Blanche Adair ; 
Still as fresh as the morn, and with no vestige faint, 
Or suggestive suspicion, of powder or paint 
In her face, which was clear as the crystalline wave 
In which, making their toilets, the mermaidens lave. 
The Trelevyns were there \ and Ray Wrentham was there 
And the moths were all there, each with sad, helpless air, 
And a look of lost qiorv. 



32G 



HEI.K.X. 



III. 

The liour had grown late 
When Mark Landis appeared. Blanche, in wait 
For his coming, conld .scarcely conceal a warm thrill 
Of delight. 

" Wicked man ! More than one fine qnadrille 
Which poor I had reserved for your pleasure has passed 
Like the joys of life's morning, and this one, the la.st. 
Just to heap coals of fire on j-our culpable head, 
Shall l)e given to 3-ou," she bewitchingly said. 

IV. 

When the .set had been formed, Blanche still .so absorbed Mark, 
That he failed to observe two eyes, lustrous and dark, 
To his own r/s-d-r/s ; and 'twas onlj" when brought 
Close in contact with them, that was suddenly wrought 
In his breast a .sensation. 

One moment he stood, 
As by spear transfixed, or as with feet to earth glued; 
But a gentle arm-pressure from Blanche brought him back 
From his wanderings brief in brown revery's track, 
Bringing home an apology. 

V. 
"Who's the brunette, 
The sweet vision, pray tell me, that graces this set?" 
He inquired of Blanche, who, shrewdly smiling, replied: 

VI. 

" 'Tis a General's daughter, wdio.se brave father died 

Two }ears since, when abroad, from old wounds of the war. 

She's the brightest advent of the season thus far. 

Intellectual, graceful, keen, and, as you see, 

As transcendent in feature as beauty can be. 

Have you now first observed her?" 



EMnKRs. 32 

VII. 

"In truth. I could ne'er 
In neglect have passed by such a face, such an air, 
Such a form, even when in the presence of one 
Who in genuine beauty precedence to hone 
Among women need yield." 

VIII. 

A like round compliment 
He had never yet paid her. She knew it was meant 
In its fullest of force. All self sentiently glowed 
With the keenest delight, which each lineament showed. 

IX. 

" Please present me. Miss Blanche ; I believe I have known 
The girl's father in 5'ears that are very long gone." 

X. 

Blanche Adair, w^th faults thick as were heroes in Thrace, 

In her nature of envy had never a trace ; 

And .she grudged not a fitting occasion to take, 

With the new debiitanie Mark acquainted to make. 

XI. 

Before this Provence-rose as he bowed, standing there, 

In the height of the fashion attired, and his hair, 

In its dark, bushy wealth, showing not the least shade 

Of a change in its hue, one would surely have said, 

If unknown the facts of their respective life spheres, 

That between the two slight was the balance in years. 

Introductions exchanged, the girl mused, with a glance 

At Mark Landis, and in recollection's expanse 

Witli her large, darkling eyes something far seemed to see; 

And dim echoes on pinions of strained memor}- 

Came at sound of his name — mellowed echoes that sprang 

Where her life-dawning's jubilant gladness first rang. 



3'.i8 HELEN. 

XII. 

" Though since infanc}- I haxx- my own native shore 
Seen but lately, j-et must I have met you before : 
You, I hope, are my dear father's friend of that name." 
This as sweetly, and gently, and graciously came 
From her lips, as, in halcj-on summers of old. 
From the lips of another came phrases of gold. 

XIII. 

" I remember," said L,andis, "in war"s bitter day. 
When, from wounds sore and wearing, exhausted I lay, 
Daily came to my cot, bearing floral perfume, 
Holding in her wee hands the spring's opulent bloom, 
A large-eyed flower-girl ; and her glad presence there 
Gave me strength, gave me patience, my anguish to bear. 
And made fragrant all seasons since then that have flown; 
And I think the same eyes look now into my own." 

XIV. 

Then the vision, upon this reminder from him, 
To Celeste came o'er dun downs of memory dim ; 
And she saw the old scene, in the tent where they lay, 
Both the father and friend, under one gentle sway; 
And two tears in the depths of her glistening eyes 
Mark saw form into shape, into pearls crystallize; 
Then, as he the discourse on less sad matters turned, 
With surprise this concerning her mother he learned: 
"She has been some days at the old farm," said Celeste, 
"Where I join her as soon as my stay here is passed. 
We have come to remain with my grandfather there, 
Who, in gathering age, needs my mother's close care." 



TIMBERS. 'd2^ 

XV. 

Mark was back on his farm. 

And back thus to this scene 
Where life's spring had with bourgeoned hopes radiant been. 
Had come Helen, that might by her care be beguiled 
Years for him who through lustrums long had for his child 
In calm hope and in patient faith waited, — ^-ears now 
Softly fading like winter's last remnants of snow. 
A prolonged Lenten season that old heart had passed, 
But the glad Easter-tinie had dawned on it at last. 

XVI. 

O'er the new phase existence presented to him 

Mark sat ruminant long, in twilight shadows dim. 

"I must call — call at once; I must neighborly be," 

Was the course he marked out for himself. " W^hat if she 

The old friendship not now to renew should prefer? 

I must wi' duty do, whatsoe'er may occur." 

XVII. 

. . . Yes, he called. 

The two met, as meet those who across 
Swollen tides hail each other — tides bearing the loss 
Inundations have caused, — met, and .spoke, as if wide 
Still between them stretched seas ; and there was on each side 
The restraint, the reserve, that the last scenes had marked 
Ere she had with her duplicate burden embarked 
To seek peace for the years. 

XVIII. 

Landis called once again. 
Would she drive with him? 

Yes ; for she could not refrain ; 
She could be but kind, courteous, plea.sant, polite; 
And he? — he was the same. 



o30 HELEN. 

Had, then, all the old light 
That illumined these lives in each breast died away? 
Were the embers extinct, to glow no more for aye? 

XIX. 

They drove not through green lanes, by meandering streams, 
Or through groves tenanted but by birds and by dreams ; — 
By no means. 'Twas a wide-awake, real-life drive. 
In which neither sought aught of dream-life to revive. 

XX. 

Mark drove round his great farm ; showed his fences and sheds ; 
His fine orchard ; his garden ; his strawberry' beds ; 
His prize hor.ses and cattle ; his pigs and his sheep ; 
Told her which was the cheapest and best breeds to keep ; 
And exhibited to her his pets, and descanted 
Long on all of their traits, and their qualities vaunted ; 
And all this he went through with a business-like grace, 
As if she were proposing to purchase the place. 

XXI. 

Then he touched u})()n Richard, with tender respect; 

And he spoke of his struggles, his useful years wrecked ; 

Of Provence, and of Europe ; and hoped she would find 

The change back to the prairie-life one to her mind. 

But in never a place where allusion were apt 

Had sought either the corse that the long years enwrapped 

To unco\-er, by tone, or suggestion, or look, 

In the whole of the lengthened, diversified talk ; 

— Save but once. As they passed by a rich ])asture-field, 

Helen, seeing a cour.ser gigantic in biiild, 

Said in casual tone : 

" You still cultivate breeds 
Of strong horses, I see." 



EMBERS. 331 

XXII. 

' ' Yes ; but ne'er other steeds 
Have I owned like the pair of which this one alone 
Remains living, whose work-days forever are done. 
Me he bore in peace-days, as in days of war's gloom, 
And links me v\'ith the seasons when hearts were in bloom." 

XXIII. 

Helen passed the theme by, and it quietly slept. 
And henceforth to the shore she more rigidly kept. 

XXIV. 

The drive had been a long one, and shadows were slant 
Before homeward they turned, and soon daylight grew scant — 
Scant as spirit or life in their guarded discourse. 
Which had run like a lazy, dull stream in its course. 

XXV. 

At her house, Helen said : 

" Did I not understand 
You are going some days in the city to spend?'' 
"Yes." 

"A favor I ask, then.'' 

' ' You have but to sa}' 
What it is." 

XXVI. 

"M3' dear child is now making a stay 
Of some weeks in the city ; and, while she is there. 
It would be a great kindness to her, could you spare 
[And there seemed some slight stress on this word to be laid] 
A stray hour, now, and then, for a call to be made 
At the friends' whom she visits, who, too, are \our friends, 
I believe. 

' ' She is studying hard toward ends 
Which I fear she mav never attain, tliough I know 



SS2 HELEN. 

The dear girl has some talent. Pardon me if I show 
Something- done by her hand." 

XXVII. 

Then the fond mother brought 
For inspection a number of landscape views, wrought 
By Celeste in their Mediterranean home. 
With a look which could ne'er from feigned interest come, 
Mark glanced over the sketches he held in his hand, 
While his features by Helen were anxiously scanned ; 
Then remarked : 

' ' The girl's hand has been well disciplined ; 
Some correct principles of design she has gleaned, 
Which will be of great benefit in her pursuit 
Of art, if she aspires to reach after its fruit 
With a patient and sedulous arm." 

xxviii. 

There came now 
Into Helen Rolfe's features a warm, honest glow, 
The first sign of emotion yet made manifest. 
She rejoined : 

"If you could but say this to Celeste, 
I am sure it would nerve her to efforts severe 
And unceasing ; for she has been taught to revere 
Your opinions — by her adored father." 

The close 
Of the sentence seemed specially measured. 

XXIX. 

Mark rose, 
And again, as he had at the first of these calls. 
Glanced at paintings that hung on the old parlor walls, 
Each one closely surveying. 

"These larger ones are. 



EMBERS. 333 

I should judge, by one baud. They are certainly far 
Above average pieces brought home from abroad, 
And the artist must be with marked talent endowed. 
There is palpably shown a most exquisite care 
In his efforts. He has conscientiousness rare, 
And is clearly imbued with the essence of taste. 
Perhaps he it was tutored your daughter Celeste?" 

XXX. 

" She obtained from him some useful hints." Helen said, 
" But the girl very sparing instruction has had. 
She has drawn much from nature, and happiest seems 
When with sketch-book among the hills, valley's, and streams. ' ' 

XXXI. 

" Now I know her instruction has been sure and sound; 

For no rival of nature has ever been found 

As a teacher, if she but be followed in sooth. 

But, ah, me! modern art strays so widely from truth! 

In art-efforts the tempting seems ever to be 

To get too far from nature. x\ll artists agree 

In this precept, and yet nearly all of them fail 

To pursue it in practice. Sure, nought can avail 

All the strivings of hand, all the studies of brain. 

While the devotee follows false gods to his bane." 

XXXII. 

As these words fell from Mark, Helen wandered in dreams: 

For the past was brought back, with its auroral beams ; 

And again was her glad youth before her, and he, 

Its true Mentor, stood there, and scarce changed .seemed to be, — 

Stood attesting, as he had attested of old, 

Living truth, and, as then, dross detaching from gold. 

XXXITI. 

Mark now added : 



3-34 HELEN. 

" I certainly cannot refrain 
From recurring to this Provence artist again. 
If you'll give me his name and address, I believe 
I will give him an order ; or will you receive 
The commission, and send it to him?" 

XXXIV. 

" Yes. His name, 
Having not even anything like local fame, 
I can't give you just now ; but the order I'll take 
And transmit it ; and what sti])ulations you make 
I will see that most faithfully he shall observe." 

XXXV. 

' ' Well, ' ' said Mark, ' 'these poor fellows strive hard, and deserve 
All encouragement one is dispo.sed to bestow. 
You ma}' let him paint for me two pictures, as you 
Or as he may deem best. Only these terms I make, 
That for me the same pains here evinced he shall take." 

XXXVI. 

. . . As he drove toward his farm, things like these Landis 

thought : 
" It is over at last, and the sooner forgot 
Is the long dream, the better for her and for me. 
Let me bury it out of my sight. 

' ' Well has she 
Her grand purpose fulfilled. What have I with her life 
To do now? How should I enter into the strife 
When the triumph is gained, and the recompense won — 
I, who victory have none to boast? All is done !" 

XXXVII. 

And wouldst know, reader, what it was Helen, too, said 
To herself when her old friend was gone, while her head 
She bowed down in her hands, and in silence sat long? 



EMBERS. 335 

" So it ends, the long tale! — this love which was so strong ! — 
Thislovewhichshouldendure while the years ran their course ! — 
This love which should prove true as its eternal source ! 
And to yield up for yonder love my memory ! 
And of that love not sure ! O, Mark I^andis, to see 
Your great heart wasted on a mere fragment of love, 
Is a sight the deep pity of angels to move ! " 

XXXVIII. 

But, good Helen, up Yonder they get not their view 

Of time's scenes through the same lenses earthlings peer through; 

And they scrutinize both sides of all cases human — 

Something down here the rarest in man or in woman. 

Why, if angels were moved whene'er mortals went niaying, 

Or o'er men and maids grieved in flirtation's ways straying. 

The entire corps celestial 'twould so close absorb 

To look after things on this most troublesome orb. 

That scant time would they have in their own pearled domain 

The due, requisite order and care to maintain. 

Thus their own way to make have the subjects of love 

In this struggle-filled world, with small help from Above ; 

For the truth is, so much of love is not divine. 

That the Heavenly heralds, on mission benign 

Should they visit earth, balm for love's miseries bearing. 

Would not know who the blessing were worthy of sharing. 



CANTO TENTH, 



KICMOKSE. 



I. 

To the city his visit Mark made the next day, 

And kept promise with Helen; for he, in such way 

As true courtesy prompted, exerted his best, 

And his gentlest, to make with the charming Celeste 

The time pass pleasantly. 

II. 

There had flitted a shade 
O'er Mark's features when he the discovery made. 
That, as Wrentham across his path frequently ran 
When he called upon Blanche, the bright young Knglishman 
Not infrequently was by him latterly passed. 
Calling also upon the delightful Celeste. 
But in one of Mark's heart-warming visits to her, 
As occasion occurred to this theme to refer, 
Of Rav Wrentham Celeste toUl him this: 

III. 

' ' He had knowm 
M\- dear lather, who formed his acquaintance in one 
Of our jaunts for health-seeking; and he afterward. 
When the news of the death of my parent he heard, 
Knowing how we were circumstanced, came all the way 
To our far Provence home, there such aid as might lay 
In his power to render, and kindly extend 
From his mother to us a request that we spend 



ri:mor.se. 33? 

A few weeks at their Devonshire home In- the sea. 
This we did ; and b}- my luvin*;- mother and me 
Has that visit l)een fondly remembered. 

' ' We learned 
Hospitality Knglish to gauge; and discerned 
What it is that the core of Old England's heart forms: 
That one sun that great heart and America's warms; 
Learned that Home, in that kindred and common -hearthed land, 
Means the .same that it means on ourown native strand; 
And that, .speaking one tongue, English still all are we, 
On whichever side of the so wide parting sea 
It ])e ours to have 1)irth. 

" What a beautiful bride 
Will Ray Wrentham have 1 He, I am sure, will take pride 
In conve^'ing her home to his country, wdiere few 
Are the types of pure beauty as her own so true." 

IV. 

Whate'er shadow had been on Mark's countenance shown 
Fled at this frank disclosure in heartiest tone. 

V. 

. . . Havingnowchangedthesubject, Markpleasantlytouched 

On the eloquent topic her mother had broached ; 

And he told of the gain that lay in the pursuit. 

As a study, of art; how it ripened the fruit 

Of the best observation, and new lite awoke. 

And a better, in brain and in heart: then he spoke 

Of the primary principles that underlie 

All art ; claimed that a l)ird might as well .seek to fly 

Without wings, as an artist to paint or to draw. 

But he not read in Beauty's grand, unwritten law. 

And he told her how sweet was the labor of art, 

If one labors in light, and with joy in the heart; 



•538 HELEN. 

But how dull aud tlcspoudeut such labor must i)rove, 
With uic'chanical liaud, aud the heart cold to love. 
He expre'ssed his regret, iu a toue sad aud low, 
That his fate had divorced him from art loug ago ; 
Aud theu, turuiug his glowiug black eyes upou her, 
Thus he said, while her own on his riveted were : 

VI. 
" Semper made virfu/e, my sweet little friend ; 
To your love for true art make all purposes bend ; 
Struggle on ; struggle hard ; struggle humbly aud long ; 
You have youth ; }-ou have health ; you are ready aud strong. 
Of art's temple shrink not to sit down at the gate : 
The reward cannot fail, if in patience j'ou wait. 
If in rags long enough your bowed soul be content 
To remain in abasement and bitterness bent. 
And oppressive belittlement, some golden morn, 
Out of he&rt- wringing effort success shall be born ; 
Your glad vision the great swinging portal shall greet ; 
And then, entering, you shall sit at the king's feet." 

VII. 

. . . Occupation delightful to Mark it had proved 
To instruct young Celeste in the art that he loved ; 
And the more he told her of the things he had told 
To her mother in dearly recalled da3-s of old, 
The more strongly of Helen's ways her ways i)artook, 
The uKjre often did Helen's eyes out of hers look. 

VIII. 
It was not many evenings since he had first called. 
When, on taking his leave, Mark was startled, appalled, 
At two things: P'irst, to glance at his watch, and 1)eliold 
The too harrowing tale its sad face could have told. 
If watch-dials had tongues; secondly, while he held 




Celeste's soft, yielding band, that there welled 
0ut of fathomless eije-depth.? a looh . , . 



RKMORSE. o41 

Celeste's soft, yielding hands, that there welled 
Out of fathomless eye-depths a look that so glowed . 
As in eyes of a young maiden look never should. 
Where love gives not the charter, to tongue and to eve. 
To speak language that nature is fain to supply. 

IX. 

Mark might well be appalled. It is not a light thing 
To awaken in such a l^reast germs slumbering, 
Though but stir they as dreamer may fitfully break 
From the chains of soft sleep ere the day-god doth shake 
His gold locks, and the world and the soul doth aronse. 
And put slumber to shame. 

X. 

He had not dared to pause, 
And a second time meet that look then, but, while guilt 
His heart flushing no less than his features he felt, 
Hastened to his hotel, and thence took the first train 
For his farm. 

XI. 

. . . Burning still all the way was his brain. 



XII. 

. . . Reaching home, he put saddle on his fleetest steed. 

And rode over the prairie at fiercest of speed. 

Seeking thus from the strong breath of nature to draw 

Tonic courage to meet the new danger he .saw ; 

Then bent sternly to labor : held plow ; wielded iork ; 

Lifted spade ; handled hoe ; did all menial work ; 

And he thought, ever thought, while he struggled away. 

On the day he returned, and the following da3^ 



34--i HELEN. 

And the day after that, and the next, and the next ; 
And he, preached to himself, with the heart for a text, 
And expounded the ethics of hfe and of love 
To himself; and thus to himself did he prove, 
With most log-ical clearness, that he, Landis, was 
Little less than a villain, infractiiii;- clear laws. 
If not those that were human, at least those divine ; 
Then did penance, like Henry at slain Becket's shrine. 

XIII. 

And these thouglits led him into a searchini^" review 
Of his life for the past score of years. 

He went through 
The whole \-ista, l)ack into empirical days, 
When his course first branched out into widening ways; 
And through years full of promise and 3'ears full of pain, 
And through seasons of loss and through seasons of gain, 
Traced the breaking of trust through the clouds of despair; 
His escape from the lowest ambition's set snare ; 
His way o'er the dull years of hard labor to health; 
And the sacrifice offered of art unto tilth. 

XIV. 

" And what is the net gain?" 

Thus he cpiestioned himself. 
" I have gained in blood, brawn, tan, hor.se-knowledge, andi)elf ; 
I have won high repute as a breeder of steers. 
While my sheep and my pigs have been noted for }-ears. 
I've secured a strong footing at fairs and horse-shows, 
And m\- word carries weight as a breeder of cows. 

XV. 

"This my gain, then, has been ; and does this gain suffice? 
Does it compensate me for the loss of the prize 
Which I .set out to win in those jubilant years, 



RE-MOKSE. -'43 

When, full armed with resolve, I laughed down all my fears? 

True, my life I have won : this is something — how nnich i> 

Saving it, I have lost that deft, delicate touch. 

Wherewith once I felt ecjnal to cope with the great, 

Some grand work with my pencil in time to create. 

And thus build for myself a sure roadway to fame. 

When truth gave me the sign that my confident claim 

On far years health impeached, J looked fate in the face ; 

On fame's scroll thought a name in my heart's blood to trace, 

To be read in the story of art ; and then die. 

This were great, and courageous. This were to aim high. 

And to miss not the mark. 

" But I lowered my aim. 
Innnortality's hope sank in rustic acclaim ! 
I missed that : I won this. I have lived. I have shunned 
The fate then close impending. M}- soul I lla^•e sunned 
In material luck. 

xvr. 
"This I've won. Yet I've lost 
In the battle of life. At by far too great cost 
I have reaped small advantages, cojmting for naught 
In the reckoning genius against me has brought. 
I possessed a rare gift, and I bartered it off 
For a few years of life, more or less, in the rough. 

XVII. 

"As if, just in the opening hour of a battle. 

When the nuiskets of skirmishers already rattle, 

One who is assigned to a charge in the struggle 

Should shrink at the rallying call of the bugle, 

And shirk with the cowardly plea : ' L,ife is dear, 

And 'tis better to save it than peril it here. 

Where renown at such cost must be won ; thus I'll turn 



344 HELEN. 

From the dang-ur- fraught scene, and leave others to earn 
The dear honor that conies but with wounding and death, 
Content glory to lose with the saving of breath ; ' — 
So have I, in mj^ earth-hugging paltering, done ; 
So fled I, craven-like, with life's fight scarce begun. 
Seeking safet}-, and peace, and a nameless career, 
With the demon Remorse hissing scorn in my ear. 

XVIII. 

" And while thus I have been yielding ujj, one by one, 
The stern requisites fame was dependent upon. 
Can it be that I've yielded up something bej-ond — 
Something of the nice sense that forms honor's true bound? 
While with time I have compromised all the years throvigh, 
And have lowered my once loft}- aim, is it true 
That I've lowered as well manhood's standard of tone? 
Let my cour.se for the months that ha\-e recently flown 
Give the answer. 

"Am I the Mark Landis who stood, 
Laughing down, once, temptation's soul-pestering brood? 
And am I the Mark Landis who scorned the world's ways — 
Scorned them only to follow them into the maze 
Of flirtation, and grow but a trifler in things 
To which all that is best in life's gentler realm clings? 

XIX. 

" Ah, my days have been barren indeed ! Having lost 
High ambition's great hopes, honor's line having crossed, 
I stand here where the ways of existence divide. 
With a youth grown to thistles on life's farther side. 

XX. 

" And now, what is there left? 

"To live on with ni}- steers, 
And my colts, and my pigs, to the end of my years; 



KKMOKSE. • -345 

And lln.n, (luitting ignobly the purposeless strife, 
As unnoticed as ]")OSsible sink cnit of life ;— 

XXI. 

" C'?//('ss :' ' 

Here, with a thrill, and a strange, startled air, 
(In the moonlight he sat, in his old easy chair,) 
Landis paused in his musings ; and half do I think 
That the man in the moon must have given a wink. 
And a smile in the bargain ; for that man observed 
(If he did not, his eyesight a poor purpose served) 
Flit across, then, the sombre, stern face of the farmer 
A soft, tender light, which his cold heart made warmer — 
That is, the cold heart of the man in the moon, 
Whose demeanor we could not with justice impugn ; 
For throughout the long ages in which he had kept 
At his post, he had looked on while conscience-storms swept 
Over spirits the cleanest and truest ; known hearts 
Pure as crystal deep pierced by contrition's keen darts, 
And seen blameless-lived saints mortifying the flesh 
By long fastings severe and the flagellant lash ; 
And he might well have smiled, as we, reader, ma}- smile, 
To see our chosen hero assume so much guile, 
As such sensitive souls have been wonted to do. 
Since one Nature to copy was held up to view. 

All transcendent : 

" Unless I should list to the whispers 
That come like the prayer of a maiden at vespers. 
Sweet, gentle, inspiring, with rhythmic wealth laden, 
Like charmed refrain sung afar in fair Aidenn." 

XXII. 

The old calendar print all have seen, I presume. 

Of the hard-tempted saint, in his cell's sombre gloom, 



346 



IIKLPCX. 



Close surrounded by forms bright, luxuriant, fair, 
Seeking his austere soul in their wiles to ensnare. 

XXIII. 

Came to Landis temptation in shape of a de\-il 

That shunned, at first, e'en the appearance of evil : 

Came clothed in suggestions all gleaming and golden ; 

Came calling to life j-earnings silenced and olden ; 

Came telling a lying tale devils all tell. 

Of a might-have-been vanished, that ma_\- l)e lived still; 

Of a changing of liie's tidal ebbing and flow. 

In maturity's veins causing youth's fires to glow : 

Of a stoppage of hands on the dial of time ; 

And of grafting on age the new, fresh plants of prime. 

XXIV. 

Then, in struggling against this temptation, Mark felt 
His strength 3-ield, and his hitherto steadfast will melt ; 
And his hold upon earthly things weakening seemed. 
. . . (The truth is, he was drowsy, and, drowsing, he dreamed.) 

XXV. 

. . . He was back in the morning-years. Health on her throne 

Sat, while coming years smiling!)- beckoned him on ; 

And he wandered alone in a realm filled with art : 

Concord reigned in the land, while peace reigned in his heart. 

All the forms, shapes, and phases of beauty were there, 

And all objects in harmony : naught but was fair. 

Nature sympathized wholly with Art, and her face 

Was refulgent with grandeur, and beaut)-, and grace. 

Rapt, he gazed on the landscape spread out to his sight. 

Bathed in effluent, mellowed, and mist-softened light, 

Edged around with horizons of purple and gold. 

And in undulate billows of emerald rolled : 

While unceasinglv music of murmuring streams 



REMORSE. •'^■l'*' 

Filled the vibrating air of this sweet land of dreams. 

XXVI. 

As, with grateful emotions of wonderment moved, 

Through the scene of bewildering beauty he roved, 

A young child approached, and, taking him by the hand, 

Led him through the spelled paths of the beautiful land ; 

On and on led him through a still variant scene. 

Such as ne'er to his fancy foreshadowed had been. 

Art with Nature vied ever in charming the sense, 

Through developing beauty's untold opulence. 

He saw nimbused Madonnas of saintlier grace 

Than a Raphael e'er had the genius to trace ; 

Forms in sculpture he viewed that might Phidias shame ; 

Rounded domes that made Angelo's glory seem tame; 

And such mirrors of Nature as Nature's self charmed, 

And her breast with the fulness of loveliness warmed. 

XXVII. 

Thus, through marvels in marble, on canvas, in bronze, 
Passed the}-, all Mark's soul still in captivity's bonds. 
And still ceaselessly stirred with glad, sentient surprise , 
Until beaut}' 's sweet plethora wearied his eyes. 

XXVIII. 

Then the fairy-like child in grace suddenly grew, 

And in figure was changed before his entranced view; 

And ere his wildered soul fully realized yet 

The bright scene of enchantment before him thus set, 

In the freshness of girlhood, with gentle grace worn. 

In the breaking aurora of womanhood's morn, 

Stood, a queen in the realm, and obeyed in behest, 

The sweet graft of Provence, the dark, large-eyed Celeste; 

Yet less like the Celeste who beamed on him to-day 

Than the Helen he knew in the years far away. 



348 



HKLKX. 



XXIX. 

The Queen now, as the child had done, gave him her hand, 
And they wandered, bj- zephyrs with bahn laden fanned, 
Till they came to a throne of pure opal ; and there, 
While the songs of all birds thrilled the resonant air. 
And rare, blossoming plants filled the land with periume, 
Did the Queen of Art's Pro\ince her sceptre resume. 
And her throne : and she beckoned to him to draw near. 
He approached, and the regnante spoke but for his ear: 
" O, beloved of my soul, sit thou here l)y my side ! 
Thou art king of my heart: here, too, reign and abide!" 

XXX. 

With the silvery tones ringing still in his ears, 
Mark awoke to the issues of life and of years, 
And to smitings of conscience, renewed, reinforced, 
By the weft of his dreamings. 

XXXI. 

. . . Perturbedly cour.sed 
All his current of thought ; and again he resumed 
His severe and stern searchings of .self. 

He now doomed 
Ignominiously, at the start, each fond hope. 
Each faint shadow thereof, that his dream conjured up. 
Thus began he : and then he went on with the work ; 
And, his hal)it not being to dodge or to shirk, 
The grim business completed. 

Thus, when he was dt)ne, 
Some things had been resolved, which, when acted upon. 
Would reach down to thespringsthat change currentsof years, 
And renew all the phases that human life wears. 



REMORSE. 349 

XXXII. 

One day, like a g^lad sunburst, appeared at the farm 
Sweet Celeste, and forthwith the old homestead grew warm 
With the glow of her genial presence, the gloom 
Which had been lurking there for bright cheer making room. 
Mark and Helen, whose intercourse now was more strained, 
Had the distance between them severel\- maintained. 
And with shadows invested the past-hallowed place, 
Which were driven away by Celeste's gentle grace. 

XXXIII. 

Landis called on Celeste there, as in duty bound; 

But no further occasion this amateur found 

To gaze into the depths of her art-tutor's ej^es, 

As he kept careful guard against any surprise, 

And all feeling within its due limits restrained; 

For, though bright be the sunshine, there must be maintained 

Requisite discipline and solemnity where 

Persons tread over graves, as was now the case there. 



CANTO ELEVENTH. 



RETRIEVAL. 



I. 

Amoni;- other things Mark had reproached himself for, 

Was his course with respect to fair Blanche. Upon her 

He had thus far been wont to look but in the light 

Of a source of diversion, keen, novel, and bright — 

As a section of sunshine his path thrown upon, 

Warming all the air round him ; accustomed had grown 

To treat her as a proper, legitimate source 

Of still fresh entertainment whenever the course 

Of the blood through his veins became turbid or slow, 

Or the clouds of regretful reflection hung low. 

II. 
He had never thought farther than this ; had not asked 
Of himself what the end was to be, while he basked 
In the light of her smiles, which he could but discern 
Beamed with brightness especial whene'er in her urn 
He burned incense, which, ruefully be it confessed, 
He had lately been learning to do with the rest. 

III. 
Blanche all hopes had relinquished that she may have nursed 
Of e'er winning the heart of all hearts to her first, 
And with things as thej' were seemed to be satisfied, 
While the means of amusement for him she supplied. 



RETRIEVAL. -'551 

IV. 
But Avas Mark right in making such use of a soul 
With his own a full peer, and in no wise a thrall? 

V. 
*In the olden time, when there were jesters at court, 
"Twas the nionarchs and nobles who made them their sport 
Were debased, rather than the poor jester himself; 
But to-day, with this custom long laid on the shelf, 
There are ways still existent in which men degrade 
Their own souls, while of other souls footballs are made. 
There's a species of dallj-ing frequently plied 
By the best-meaning men, that is closely allied 
To the rankest coquetry the soft sex commit. 
And no less deserves censure. 

That women permit 
Marked civilities too closely pressed, in no wise 
Justifies those who pa}^ them. To blindfold the eyes 
Does not alter the truth, and the conscience to steel 
Does not cancel the guilt that strict honor should feel — 
Guilt in honor's court standing recorded, alas, 
Of -too many who muster as gentlemen pass. 

VI. 

As I've said, Mark was now doing penance: and one 
Of the acts thereof he had determined upon, 
Was to make reparation to Blanche. 

Now, the wa}^ 
In which this was achieved is so rare in this day. 
That I hesitate somewhat in telling it, fearing 
I shall be accused of to truth not adhering. 

VII. 

When next into the city our penitent went. 

Were his steps straight to Blanche x\dair's residence bent ; 



352 HELEN. 

And, with \-ery suiall i)arley the talk to prelude, 
Conversation tt) be lonj^" remembered ensued. 

VIII. 

" Will you tell me, Miss Blanche, whether you are cn.2;-aged 
To Ray Wrentham or not?" 

IX. 



Frankly. I am not pledged 



Yet by any thing binding." 



X. 

' ' So had I supposed ; 
Though I thought it cjuite strange he should not have proposed ; 
And continued my calls ('tis now in the third 3'ear !) 
Till the rights of a known ^a?tc^ should appear. 
But I deem it comports not with that which belongs 
To a gentleman, when one attentions prolongs 
To a lady so far as to notice to bring 
His relations with her, without tender of ring 
Plighting troth. 

" None I judge. For myself, though, I must 
Say and do what I hold to be right, to be just, 
In the light of my course with relation to you. 
Without heed to what others have done, or may do. 
. . . Blanche Adair, I now ask you my wife to become, 
If you care to share with me a plain farmer's home." 

XI. 

In her time Blanche too many proposals had heard, 
B}' this one in composure at all to be stirred ; 
Yet that it unexpectedly came, was as clear 
As that not at all harshly it fell on her ear. 

XII. 

A brief moment she paused ; the proponent then faced, 
With a look deep and searching ; but nothing she traced 



RETRIEVAL. '^53 

Satisfactorj- to her. 

Then slowly she said : 
" You don't love nie, Mark Landis!" 

XIII. 

"No claim have I made 
To a feeling for you such as springs from the heart. 
If my acts have deceived you, 'tis blame on my part." 

XIV. 

"On that score have no scruples. No blame rests on you ; 
For I've not been deceived. I have had in full view 
The clear truth, which ne'er once since the first hour we met 
Could my heart disregard or my reason forget." 

XV. 

"lyove, you hold, as I've oft from your lips understood, 
Non-essential is in ' mariage a la mode.' " 

XVI. 

"So I've .strongly declared. I could be a good wife, 
And could sweeten the years of an honest man's life, 
Without loving him." 

XVII. 

"So hold not I ; yet, Miss Blanche, 
At your own word I've taken you, not C7i revanche. 
But with firm and sincerely formed purpose to prove 
To yourself such a husband as must inspire love." 

XVIII. 

" But the wife of Mark L,andis I never could be. 
Unless he \\\W\ his heart and his soul should love me." 

XIX. 

" Why of me an exception thus make?" 

XX. 

' ' Because you 
Are exceptionable among men. Ere I'm through, 



354 HELENo 

I will fully explain. 

" But, first, please understand 
That 'tis no artifice of cocpielry I've j^lanned, 
To coax stronger avowals, when thus I decline 
The proposal you make to link your fate and mine. 
... I presume you l)y no means exi^ect I'll avow 
The plain, unxarnished truth to you. We are just now 
At the stage, in such cases, where feigning begins 
In good earnest. But, somehow, with all of *my sins 
In this line, I'm impelled to be honest with you ; 
Which is something in no way praiseworthy to do; 
For with you to speak truth is an easier task 
Than with any soul wearing mortality's mask. 

XXI. 

" And, Mark Landis, this point-blank rejection now leaves 
Blanche Adair's tongue unloosed, and the right to her gives 
With a freedom to speak such as rarely accrues 
To a woman — a right that I'm not loath to use. 

XXII. 

" Know this, then, that I love yoii! 

" And, pray, do not start, 
With astonishment large, that the light Blanche's heart 
Should be once capable of a feeling like love! 
Could the right heart love hers, what a faith could she prove! 

XXIII. 

" No, Mark I^andis ! Unless I possessed your whole heart — 

And demand I should make for the uttermost part — 

Truth tells me I could ne\-er be happy with you 

As your wife; — though, since fate in one path our feet thixnv, 

Have the suns as they coursed seemed more brightly to shine, 

And rare seasons of joy and delight have been mine. 

Even after I yielded all hope of one day 




- ^^ 



i^ 



KETKIKVAL. 357 

To your heart gaining entrance and there holding sway. 
'Tis a pleasure to meet you, and call you my friend, 
And to love you, as you I must love, to the end, — 
Not with grievous repinings and longings — O, no ! 
These are not for the gay Blanche Adair e'er to show. 

XXIV. 

" I know now where your heart is. I did not, until 
The Rolfes came. On that evening, in the quadrille, 
'Twas revealed to me as by electrical flash. 
That scene served to earth any' hope remnant to dash. 

XXV. 

" But not this alone have I observed. I have seen. 
On the part of the being whose star you have been 
Through the long night of memor}-, evidence plain 
That the love of life's morning has never known wane. 
'Twas the hope that expired with her advent — a hope 
That could not with a love between such natures cope — 
Which induced me to hold thus in dalliance long 
The 3'oung Englishman. Has not my tenure been strong? 
Have I not most adroitly manoeuvred ? This is the way 
We society belles — we coquettes, if you will — our games play; 
And methinks Blanche Adair with the best holds her own 1 
I have not won your love, for 'twas not to be won ; 
But I'm satisfied ! Pleasant has been the pursuit. 
Although home it has brought not the waited-for fruit. 

XXVI. 

..." Now, then, tell me, Mark Landis, with your tongue 

of truth. 
That at heart you despise me, and my want of ruth ; 
And let me my own ways in the world go, while you 
Shall go vours ; and thus let it be said there are two 



358 HELEN. 

Of the myriad hearts in this heart-o'erstockcd world, 
That each other have never deceived." 

XXVII. 

. . . W'itli lips curled, 
And a tinge on each cheek, which persistently stro\-e 
With the paleness that else therefrom all color drove, 
She stood, fearless and fair, looking straight in the eye 
Him 'twas hers to love, honor, respect, and defy ; 
Whom she feared, and yet feared not ; held, and released. 

XXVIII. 

For some moments Mark stood, after Blanche had thus ceased. 
With thrilled interest moved, although scarce with surprise. 
Gazing silently into her bright hazel eyes — 
Brighter now with the light in their clear depths that glowed, 
Than e'er yet they had been in all changes of mood. 

XXIX. 

"Blanche Adair," he now said, "with a strange frankness 

fraught 
Are your words. But by those let a verdict be brought 
Who are competent : I have no judgment to give : 
I have no stone to throw, Blanche, while you and I live ; 
For to one heart the soul of true justice you've been, 
And that heart is not blameless, whate'er be your sin. 
. . . But still further let me extend frankness, and say, 
That the love you think lives as of old, is to-day. 
If it ever lived, dead upon one side, although, 
I am free to say, not upon mine." 

XXX. 

" Nay, not so . 
O, my friend, not for naught have I studied the heart ! 
Not for naught on heart-subjects I've practiced my art! 
Her I've met unto whom \our heart has been as true 



RHTKIKVAL. 35'J 

As the shell to its lover the sea ; looked her through ; 
Probed and studied her ; felt her deep scorn ; and I say 
That her love never did, nevei- will die away !" 

XXXI. 

"Ah! he not overwise in \onr day, Blanche Adair! 
Hold not out to nie hopes that are speciously fair !" 

XXXII. 

" From what motive should I these facts misstate to you, 
When my life I would give but to have them untrue? 
. . . But, my friend — may I still call you so?" 

■■ While years last." 
" On your friendship the burden will you let me cast 

Of a confidence ?" 

" What you may please." 

' ' Ere your name 
Was annotmced, from Ray Wrenthamthis sharp letter came: 

XXXIII. 
Dear M I .s s B i, .\ n c h e : 

I scarce think you can reasonably 
In the least wise importunate deem it in me, 
To insist that the time has now come to demand 
Something definite from you concerning }our hand. 
Hitherto, when I've sought to draw this from your lips. 
Your charmed converse has ever availed to eclipse 
My persistent and firmly resolved questionings. 
But relentless time, Blanche, other life-issues brings; 
And I beg you'll recall what you're wont to declare. 
That love should not be made too strong tension to bear. 
I start on a brief trip to the country, to-day, 
An old visit, to Wrentham Hall made, to repaj-. 
If I find, on returning, (a week or two hence,) 



300 



HELEN. 



Ko decision yd rendered, my visits from thence, 
As a suitor, will cease. 

Sweet, Miss Blanche, are your words, 
Are your ways, is your smile, is your life; and while cords 
Harshly stricken will vibrate with i)ain, yet there's due 
To myself a stern duty no less than to you. 
Still my hand, and my name, hold I at your command ; 
And the word, as of old, of a Wrentham will stand. 
Let me beg you to choose, then, by yea or by nay. 

And release from suspense 

Your still loyal friend, 

Ray. 

XXXIV. 

" This, concisely," said Blanche, " does Ray Wrentham" s note 

mean : 
Halts my knight from far Albion two loves between. 
As men often have halted since love was first born. 
And as men will oft halt while love's chains shall be worn. 
Passion strongest of man, that hath ever had bud 
And had bloom, since the dove told the ebb of the flood. 
Its degrees hath, its weakness, its faintness of breath, 
Its all-julMlant life, its decay, and its death." 

XXXV. 

" Do you this rule apply unto man's love alone?" 

XX.KVI. 

" Woman's less have I tested," she answered, in tone 
Of arch frankness. 

" But, my confidant, tell me, pray, 
How to act in this case. Come ! I'll do as you say ! 
You shall arbiter be. 'Tis for you to declare 
"What the future shall be of your friend Blanche Adair !" 



RKTRIKVAL. 361 

XXXVII. 

"Does Ray know that you lovt him no more?" 

" He believes 
That my love is as green as the mistletoe leaves." 
"Blanche!" 

" You start." 

"I'm impelled to admit I am pained!" 

XXXVIII. 

" I perceive you know little of flirting, my friend. 

Well, 'tis not a misfortune to lack in this lore ; 

For this one thing you ever may reckon as sure : 

That yet never did any flirtation proceed, 

Which was not based on falsehood, in word or in deed. 

With this instrumentality taken away. 

Bless me ! how woidd we belles hold our silvery sway ? 

XXXIX. 

"And now, while in the mood, let me sing you an air, 
Which embodies the code of your friend Blanche Adair. 
"Tis no code that Mark Landis could ever approve, 
But this code is in force in the world's courts of love." 

XL. 
The piano he opened for her; and, in strains 
That seemed bidding defiam?e to fate, these refrains 
She poured forth, while, with feelings confused, 
Half offensively shocked, half surpris'dly amused. 
He attentively listened, as clear her notes rang, 
And thus lightly of love's earthly tenure she sang: 



■M-i 



HELEN. 



ila-^z's Wzr)upc.. 



T loved a maid when life was lender ; 
I loved her with my heart and soul, 
With passion .serving to engender 
Conceit that I held full control 
Of her heart's springs 
And fancyings. 
II. 
My love exceeded rhyme or reason ; 

I felt no doubts, nor harliored fears ; 
To hold love mortal was but treason ; 

I deemed it hemmed not by earth's years 
But looked beyond 
For its true bound. 
III. 
My maid had vowed love past all telling ; 

Her troth had she eternal deemed ; — 
Yet absence chilled her faith up-welling ; 
Another dream of love she dreamed ; 
Another's breast 
Her heart gave rest. 

IV. 

But sweet requital gained I gladly : 

A second maid I loved as well 
As that first one I wooed so madl}- ; 
Yea, loved her better, sooth to tell ; 
And now my heart 
Feels not love's smart, 
v. 
And .should this one likewise betray me, 

Another joyfully I'll hail; 
Another shall console and stay me ; — 
His votaries ne'er doth Eros fail. 
Thus shall my heart 
Repel love's smart. 



KETRIEVAL. 303 



Love I uo nioru regard eternal ; 

I pledge my dear but this warm life. 
Let others taste love's joys supernal : 
Give me the love of earth's thrilled strife, 
With fealty blent, 
And I'm content. 

VII. 

Thus peer I ne'er beyond the portal 

That opes into futurity ; 
If true my dear be while she's mortal, 
Beyond the Styx she shall be free. 
And thus my heart 
Shuns e'er love's smart. 



XLI. 
The song finished, she turned to the master who stood 
At her side — he who could have controlled her least mood. 
At whose bidding naught was there she would not have done, 
Or have dared, or endured ; and the theme they were on 
Thus resumed : 

"As to Wrentham : what do you decide?" 

XLII. 

Mark was silent a space ; then in earnest replied : 

' ' Though you sing, as you speak, in light tones, Blanche Adair, 

Through your eyes I look into your soul, and see there 

Capability great things to do. I appeal 

To that soul to prove once more to womanhood leal, 

And, a second time in one for me deathless day, 

To show forth such true courage as Blanche Adair may. 

To yon ancient and time-honored halls do not go. 

To make there of love's mockery conscienceless show. 

Let Ray win, if inclined to, this young heart of gold ! 



^64 hp:lun. 

That 'tis 'on with the new love and off with the old,' 
Yours the blame. Let him go ; and while far summers teem 
With their fruitage will my soul hold yours in esteem.'' 

XIJII. 

No response came from Blanche. In her seat she turned round 
At the instrument, thrummed at the keys, and profound 
Her absorption in revery seemed, while Mark stood, 
Her long silence respecting, and not in a mood 
To infract it. 

At length the stirred cords, cadent grown, 
Began gradually to take measure and tone ; 
And without premonition her silver voice sang 
An air which with unwonted sincerity rang, — 
One in contrast most strange with that she had just sung. 
And which had in Mark's mind with harsh dissonance rung. 

Kpier)asr)ip s ■'rorrjb. 

I. 

I've buried, 'mid regrets and tears, 

A friendship, treasured up for years. 

It shrank not 'neath the summer's heat ; 

In vain the chill blasts 'gainst it beat. 

To friendship's tomb, bereaved heart, bring 
The fragrant blossoms of the spring. 
II. 

But came a breath by passion breathed, 

And burst the garland lealty wreathed ; 

And friendship, starving with neglect. 

Died in its prime, unstained, unflecked. 
To friendship's tomb in summer bring 
The blooms from earth's ripe breast that spring. 
III. 

The dawns will come, the sunsets go ; 

The heart will other friendships know ; 



RETRIEVAL. 3fJ5 

But, long as truth shall honored he, 

This first will stand in memory. 

To friendship's tomb in autumn bring 
The flowers that still to earth-life cling 

IV. 

The fervent god of love ma}' scorch 
The heart with passion's flaming torch ; 
But ne'er will purer sentiment 
Bless earth than in this grave lies pent. 
To friendship's tomb in winter bring 
The leaves the lorn trees from them fling. 

XLIV. 

Blanche arose from the instrument, and, facing Mark, 
Who preserved silence still, slowly made this remark : 
" Yoti perceive I can serious sing for the nonce. 
How my improvised song do you like?" 

XLV. 

"I've ne'er once 
Inability dreamed of assigning to 3011 
To converse, sing, or feel with an earnestness true. 
I'll more gladly retain strains of this tender la}', 
Than of that which, you say, gives love's code of to-day. 
To the latter will Memory deafen her ears. 
While the former will greet her through seasons and years." 

XL VI. 

There had now come some color to Blanche's white brow ; 
And resuming, in tones at first measured and low, 
Then elastic and light, as in her wonted mood. 
While with interest deepened Mark watching her stood. 
She recurred to his last and so earnest appeal, 
And assent gave in accents that caused him to feel 
That a woman stood by him with heart and with soul, — 
Though a woman, alas, who missed womanhood's goal: 



oW 



HELEN. 



XLVII. 
" Passing pleasant and sweet, to a woman like me, 
Were the fortune of Wrentham Hall mistress to be ; 
But still pleasanter, sweeter to gain is the end 
That shall win the approval and praise of my friend. 
I will do what you counsel me: this very day 
I'll convey to Ray Wrentham his half-asked conge ; 
And for your sake I'll suffer what belles all ill brook — 
Supplantation in preference. 

XLVIII. 

..." Now, I will look 
Round the field for new conquests. 

'"To arms! Care! Heigh-ho! 
"Tis a merr}- world ! 

..." Bah ! a tear ! 

„ . . ''Please, my friend, ^i,''^.'" 




CANTO TWELFTH. 



SHADINGS. 



I. 

Once a traveler stopped at Dieppe, by the sea. 

. . . Old Dieppe ! Dear Dieppe ! There are fairer than thee 

Among towns, there are brighter ; but as, nodding there 

O'er thy tasks, in the mists of the Normandy air, 

Sittest thou, washes not the sea's billowy brine 

A shore thicker with memories, Dieppe, than thine ! 

II. 
Absorbed fully as much in the days that were flown, 
As in those that relentlessly ever march on. 
Over relics and remnants of glories gone b)-, — 
Over graves, and regrets, and old minsters, where lie 
Heroes, sages, and bards the world tries to forget. 
In an age in utility's hard ethics set, — 
Strolled the wanderer church and cathedral beside. 
By the Norman erected in days of his pride. 
And at length rambled old Dieppe's fish- wharves among, 
Where were gathered a seething and struggling throng- 
(All with huge market-baskets strapped on their small backs) 
Of tanned, skinny fishwives, who were unloading smacks 
Of their herring-freight, round the far Hebrides caught, 
And to this port by canny Scots fishermen brought, 
Who in vain tried to cope, in their starved Gaelic brogue. 
With these Norman adepts in deep fish-dialogue. 



308 HELEN. 

III. 
These quaint shapes, with their high caps, a la Nornnxudic, 
And their coarse woollen skirts, reaching scarce 'neath the knee, 
And their clump wooden shoes, (being" cousins, 'tis proved. 
Of the Conqueror William, a few times removed,) 
In their hard features showed deepl}' seamed lines of care, 
And the marks of time's usage the wretched all bear. 
The vast mass of the faces in henna seemed dyed ; 
There were few that were not wrinkled, shriveled, and dried; 
And, but for the exceeding large measure of life 
With which all the bizarre caiiiaiadcric was rife, 
One might fancy that from Thebes' s sepulchred gloom 
Unswathed mummies in squadrons to market had come. 

IV. 

Here and there, in this crowd, might be seen a sweet face, 
Exquisite in simplicity, nature's own grace 
Forming contour of loveliness strikingly fair, 
With complexion bespeaking health fresh as the air, 
With l)nght eyes, rosy lips, and clean kerchief and gown, 
And neat cap, underneath which a curl struggled down. 
These so strong contrasts with the witch-faces were few, 
But were fair as rose moist still with kiss of the dew ; 
And the)' seemed, 'mid the rest, like doves vultures among, 
Like rare jew^els on fierce monsters idolized hung, 
Or like souls from Elysium, Styx crossing o'er, 
Seeking spirits lost on the Plutonian shore. 

v. 
Then the traveler, pondering on the strange lives 
Of the.se toiling and moiling yet lively fishwives. 
Having knack of chance-sketching, outlined this weird scene. 
Catching varied expressions, harsh, sordid, and mean. 
Anguished, sorrowing, reckless, coarse, deadened, and dull; 



SHADINGS. 3<J9 

And, among- them distributed, fair, sweet, and full. 

All the faces of beauty that could be discerned, 

In their newness of life, with its lore all unlearned ; 

And sketched also the herring-smacks, and a great barque. 

Freighting for the dim shores that the farthest zones mark ; 

The loose cordage, and sails, and the sailors around, 

Lying laz>- and listless ; some boats outward bound ; 

With a totich of the town, in its garb antique dressed : 

And the sun sinking down in the purpling west. 

VI. 

In far years these stray sketches the wanderer wrought 
Into one, into which was thrown closest of thought 
And severest of toil. 

VII. 

Would you like, reader mine, 
To behold this so strongly ambitious design 
Upon canvas with faithfulness placed? 

Come with me. 
We will not again cross the old troublesome sea ; 
But I'll carry you back to the prairies once more. 
Where we've hoped, smiled, and wept, in the dear days of yore, 
With our good friends, my characters. 

VIII. 

Enter this room. 
From intrusion secure. 

Here, at times wrapt in gloom, 

Working ever with patience, enduring and strong, 

Work beginning betimes, at work lingering long. 

Working often in pain, often in dark despair. 

Yet with joy falling oft in brief gleams to her share — 

The sweet joy of progressive achievement, — we meet 

Dieppe's visitant. 



370 



HKI.EN. 



IX. 

Since tliere by \vharf and by street 
Strolled the loiterer, years that brought healthful events 
To bless earth have successively folded their tents 
And to silent oblivion stolen away, 

Giving place to those bringing change, chill, and decay ; 
But unchanged by those years, and unchilled by the gulf 
They have bridged, is the heart of the true Helen Rolfe. 

X. 

Sitting thus at her painting, she broodingly mused ; 
Nor could labor dispel her sad musings, infused 
Though it was with her soul's strong, intense energies, 
And though sweetened by all of the heart's sjnnpathies. 
For occurring events, by rude gossip-breath l:)lown. 
O'er this hallowed retreat shadows baleful had thrown. 
Calling up morbid fancies and shapes of unrest 
In her trial-proved, calm, and self-poised seeming breast, 
Where a buried hope, rising from out of its tomb. 
Had been striving to scatter the mold and the gloom, 
And be clothed with the sunshine. 

XI. 

Thus ran the sad line 
Of reflections that burdened this spirit benign : 
"While, in breaking relations with that faithless one, 
Wrentham fills a fond dream I had nursed for my own 
Darling child, yet alas, this now closes the door 
On my last hope, and ////;/ leaves to her evermore. 
Was it wrong in me that I would take from its va.se 
The fond flower whose fragrance perfumed my young days, 
And once more dream of holding it tenderly pressed 
To mv reconciled, stilled, and renouncing-wont breast? 



SHADINGS. 371 

And do I ill the slig^htest the memory wrong' 
Of the dead]"' 

And there came with these broodings along 
An increasingly bitter resentment toward her 
In whom fancy abnormal saw Mark's evil star. 

XII. 

'Tis a proverb as old as the cedars that grow 

On Mount Lebanon's sides, that fair woman doth show 

To her own .sex less charity than to the stronger. 

Wh}' this should be so, I have pondered on longer 

Than on most problems touching the daughters of Eve, 

Yet solution none cometh my mind to relieve ; 

And I'm still in the dark, as 1 am on the question 

Why to woman's ear came Satan's primal suggestion 

Of evil, and not unto man's, — or on one 

Close akin thereto, over which wear}' have grown 

Brains untold, to wit, why women sympathize more 

With the average Blue-Beard, with corses galore 

In his closet, than with the unfortunate wight 

Whose repute is as clean as a cleansed Levite, 

Who no vices can boast, and no seared, wicked savor 

Can show, to commend him to feminine favor. 

One misstep let a woman make, and, lackaday ! 

Falls each prop of support from her sisters away ; 

But the ofteiier men step aside, it would seem. 

For them more doth the .soft sex's sympathy teem. 

Why, alas, .should this be? Mighty myth 1 

But life's durance 
Too brief is to give any well based assurance 
That reason (with all its resources how mutable I) 
Maj-e'er fish these lost Whys outof truth'sdepths inscrutable. 



•Jtv HKLEN. 

XIII. 
Return we to onr heroine, sitting alone, 
Nursing wrongful resentment toward one who had done 
Favor greatest for her that a mortal could do, 
And therein unto womanhood proved rarely true. 

XIV. 

That a thoroughly womanly woman was she 

Whose life-struggles I'm telling in this history, 

Is but what I have faithfully aimed to set forth, 

Blind no more to her weaknesses than to her worth. 

In proportion as Helen had loved, she had failed : 

But although failing thus, her skirts never were trailed 

In the dust of coquetry, and ne'er had she been 

Light of purpose since sorrow's first clouds she had seen. 

There were times, it is true, when in gloom lay her path, 

And around her had broken the tempest's wild wrath; 

An.d mistakes she made oft as she groped toward light, 

In the seasons when troubles had curtained the right. 

But a deep earnestness e'er pervaded her days. 

And made lovely her life and engaging her ways; 

While the constant denial of self brought to view 

Ever new depths of worth in her nature so true. 

XV. 

With this earnestness coloring all her career, 

Springing forth from a heart whose each throb was sincere. 

And experiences such as had been hers to bear, 

Nought could Helen in connnon have with Blanche Adair, 

With her life artificial, affections blase. 

Her adjustal)le ethics, instincts cgarc. 

Her world-knowledge too reaching, her flirtation arts, 

And her trade, briskly driven, in men's bleeding hearts. 



SHADINGS. 



37a 



XVI. 

And yet women like Blanche, with the world's dust all stained, 

Ofttimes rise to unselfish heights never attained 

By those who through life pass with no step ever made 

From propriety's rules deviating a shade. 

'Tis a sphere of their own that they fill in this world ; 

And stones at them in myriads with unction are hurled^ 

As our Helen was hurling them. 

Heaven o'er all 
Judges justly — more justly than those whom we call 
Earthl}' saints. Ah, I fear that sometimes ill would fare 
Many merit-proved souls, if these saints had their share 
In the dooming of those mortal born. He who sees 
Through all human disguises and mind-mysteries, 
Notes the weakness of saint as of sinner, and gauges 
Deservings impartially through all the ages. 
Were not this the case, and on saints we poor sinners 
Had to soleh- rely for just judgments, the winners 
In the race the Apostle declares set before us 
Would be scarce, though beatified eyes should watch o'er us. 



XVII. 

Since occurred the dcnoiiemoit with frank Blanche Adair, 
Mark had made sundry calls upon Helen ; but rare 
Of late was it his calls else than formal had been, 
Helen being just now very hard to be seen. 
He perceived that her mind was absorbed in some task, 
Of the nature of which he had sought not to ask. 
No offense did he take when she failed to appear, 
Thanks to words Blanche had spoken his spirit to cheer. 



3T4 



HELEN. 



He had waited in patience, with hope creeping on, 
Till such time as she should with her labor be done. 
At these calls sweet Celeste for her mother returned 
Kver gentlest excuses. 

Yet one thing Mark learned 
In the cour.se of the.se visits of courtesy there, 
While Celeste and Ray Wrenthani sole occupants were : 
That to be entertained by two lovers but wrought 
Vanity and vexation of spirit, and brought 
Grist to nobody's mill. 

Therefore Mark came to be 
In his calls quite perceptibly less neighborly, — 
Though some bird in his tree-tops that sang had sent strains 
To his heart, which, while banishing thence all remains 
Of dejection that might have been tenanting there, 
Left in lieu, if not sunshine, at least not despair. 



CANTO THIRTEENTH. 



KEST. 



I. 
In his barnyard, one day, in a ruminant mood, 
With his dumb-languagedpets round him, Farmer Mark stood, 
From each one of them hearing its plaint or its prayer, 
And awarding to each praise or blame with its fare ; 
When a message from his gentle neighbor was brought, 
Telling him that the pictures (which had from his thought 
Nearly vanished), by him through her ordered, had come; 
And would he in a leisure hour call at her home 
And inspect them? 

" In case they shall prove not to be 
What Avill please you," thus ran Helen's note, "you are free 
To decline them; and then, if ^-ou should not refuse 
To let this artist try to paint some other views. 
He can yet, I hope, satisf}^ 3'ou, when he knows 
Something more of your taste than at present he does." 

II. 
In the dull, drear routine of farm-life, an event 
New and fresh thus presented itself, and Mark went, 
In response to the summons, the same aften:oon. 
Behind coursers whose steps with the airs kept in tune, 
With superb effect sung by the meadowlarks gay 
And the other winsfed troubadours lining the wav. 



378 HELEN. 

III. 
. . . Till apiM-oaching- the end of my story. 

'Tis meet, 
While Mark drives o'er the prairie his neighbor to greet, 
That I say a last word for the latter, who nears 
Now the close of the strifes that liaAe crimsoned her \ears. 
In this narrative I have most earnestly sought 
To do justice to my heroine, who has "fought 
A good fight", and, I hope it is clear to be seen. 
In her course " kept the faith" — greatly leal of soul been. 
She's faced tempters adept, that a many beguile, 
With a stoutness of soul that has won on me, while 
I have tried to depict it in language deserv^ed ; 
And her constancy rare to inspire me has served. 
Having borne herself well in the trials that trooped 
Often past her, and pressed through the low clouds that grouped 
Her lone pathway athwart, with fixed eye ever bent 
On the pole-star which beamed in her life's firmament, 
To the world she has shown, by example sublime. 
How the soul may surmount the impcdings of time, 
And triumphant ride out all advensity's gales, 
When a compass it has that ne'er varies or fafls. 

IV. 

Such a compass had she. 

It has been hers on earth 
To advance the bright standard of womanhood's worth; 
To show forth the resources a woman's soul hath 
When it fearlessly follows inspirings of faith — 
Such a faith as an iris of hope 1)uilds to span 
All the universe, places itself in the van 
Of the years, and calls down to the ages that pause 
On the threshold of longing humanity's cause 



REST. 371) 

The true watch-word of progress, the pass-word of peace, 
The blest herald of trust in the vSpirit of Grace. 

V. 
. . . Driving- through the old gateway as small grew the da}', 
The quick ear of our farmer heard notes die away, 
Which were plaintive and pensive, }-et rich with the wealth 
Of the voice that had cheered him in days of heart-health. 
When he entered, he .said: 

" Ere the paintings I see, 
I entreat you that strain to sing once more for me." 

vr. 
There was earnestness shown in his look, that of late 
She had failed to observe ; and her heart leaped elate. 
She thought, too, that she heard, in the tones of his voice 
An old, welcoming ring. 

Durst her spirit rejoice? 
What was this that had come like the first breath of spring, 
To wake hope, and new life to her bosom to bring? 
The fresh impulse gave strength, and her voice thrilled to throw 
Her soul into the song, wdth whose tremulous flow 
Her breast swelled in accord. Both the music and words 
Were her own, and like these were the sweet verbal chords: 

bote's ^ests. 

"NON SINE LACHBYMIS." 
I. 

I should not crave a tearless love : 

Uninoisteued by the drops that start 
At promptings of the grief-moved heart, 

'Twould not my inmost being move. 
II. 

I should not seek a painless love : 

Who hath not suffered hath not known 
The power that stays affection's throne. 

And lifts the soul earth's dross above. 



'iSO IIELHX. 

III. • 

I should not prize a clouldless love ; 

To its calm front I could not cling. 

In shadows, not in sunshine, spring 
The tests that soul -true passion prove. 

iV 

The love that to my heart would bring 
The largest joy, would be one tried 
By tears and struggles long, and dyed 

In life's wine-press of suffering. 

VII. 
Near her during the .song he had .stood, and the play 
Of each muscle had watched, and the meaning that lay 
In each beam of her eyes. 

And, while singing, she knew 
His glance scanned her, and glad her heart under it grew. 

For with him, and herself, and the world, she could now 
Honest be, nor need shamed be by flu.sh on the brow 
Or the cheek, signaling thrilled affection's w^arm glow, 
And reflecting the light that gave cheer long ago. 
Just now, too, something with sweetest whispering said, 
lyonger need she not guard against being betraj-ed — 
That the time for betrayal's completion drew near: 
Thus hope's advent, unlooked for, drove off each faint fear. 

YIII. 

As she from the piano arose, and led him 

To examine his purchases, there was a gleam 

In her ej-es that spoke what never words could have told. 

And made known that all fires brightly burned as of old. 

IX. 

" In the first I shall show you, I fear you will deem 
Too expensive an order I've given. The dream 



REST. 381 

Of the artist, as often wifl happen, you know, 
Ran beyond his orig-inal jilan." 

X. 

Chatting so, 

She \Yith him entered into a close-darkened room, 

And a curtain drew, when on a sudden the gloom 

Became radiance. 

And, like an avatar bright. 

Burst from half the wall's surface, on Mark's daz/.led sight, 

Helen's work of hard months, "The Fishwives of Dieppe" ! 

XI. 

With an artist's jo>- filled, he dropped backward a step, 

And stood gazing thus long without speaking. 

Than Mark, 
Ne'er a man could more trul}' so labored a work 

Estimate at its worth. The impression it made 

Upon him lifted Helen to bliss. 

XII. 

Then he said : 
" There lay /once, in old Dieppe, sketching this scene, 
In the years of my dawn : and oft tempted I've been 
To produce from my sketches a picture. But I — 
Ah ! like thou.sands of others ! — have idh^ sat by. 
While an artist from nowhere, without e'en a name, 
Has stiperbly forestalled me, and put me to shame !" 

XIII. 

Then he carefull}' noted the grouping, the light. 

The expressions of faces as well that were bright, 

(And how brightly there blossomed each Normandy- rose!) 

As of those which were hideous ; also of those 

Of the sailors ; the fishing-smacks slim\' : the quay ; 

The great freight-loading barque ; the ships putting to sea ; 

And o'er allj with a studied and master-hand thrown. 

The empurpled rays cast by the westering sun. 



382 • HELEN. 

XIV. 

He now turned to her, saying- : 

" You know me too well, 
Not to know I am pleased beyond power to tell 
With this painting-. And never for work have I paid 
Less reulctantly than will this payment be made, 
When you tell me the price which the artist has set, 
Whatsoever it be." 

XV. 

"I'm rejoiced this has met 
Your desire," said the heart-brimming- Helen ; "I'm sure 
Your approval the artist strove hard to secure. 
. . . Now the other we'll view." 

She then, taking- Mark's arm, 
Led him gently away from the lingering charm 
Of the picture, aloft to her studio ; where, 
From the easel, confronted his wondering stare 
A farm-scene — not in France, not in Europe, and not 
In some quiet, secluded, sequestered, far spot 
Only by memory or in dreams visited ; 
But a scene in the fresh -blooming prairie-land laid. 

XVI. 

There the massive barn loomed ; there men unloaded hay, 

On the prairie mown newly, and mowed it away — 

Its sweet fragrance one well-nigh might .scent on the air; 

And the horses and cattle ranged round showed such care 

As a good farmer only could give them ; and, lo ! 

The good farmer stood there — a form easy to know, 

Bronzed and stalwart, broad-shouldered, and tall, 

With slouched hat,. and farm-dre.ss, and j-et lordly withal; 

With an eye bright and clear, and one arm on the neck 

Of a honse, which was giant in frame, but whose back 



REST. 38;J 

Told that burdens no longer in this world it bore, 

Though its form yet showed much of a grace owned of yore ; 

And if at the four-corners, where teams stop to feed, 

Had been hung up the portrait of every ba^^ steed 

In the county, of this would each farmer have said 

Instantly. "Why, that's none but old Gentleman Ned, 

Of the great Landers farm, more'n twenty year old ; 

An' ye couldn't buy him fur his weight all in gold ;" 

Or the substance thereof. 

XVII. 

(And much more, had one cared, 
On occasion like this, one of Mark might have heard : 
Might, for instance, have heard that he made of his farm 
A reflex of his mind, and threw o'er it a charm 
That was recognized all the wide region around ; 
That his neighbors the secret had never yet found, 
Why the Landis farm j-ielded the finest of grain. 
And its owner the bulk of fair-prizes should gain. ) 

XVIII. 

. . . Mark was stupefied, dazed, and bewildered, and sought 
The enigma to solve, him confronting. He thought 
Of an artist imported, somehow, from abroad, 
(Which idea on its face its absurdit}' showed;) 
Thought of what surreptitiously might have been done 
B}' Trelevyn ; but, no — to Mark too well was known 
Both the habit and hand of his old artist- friend. 
Then he thought of Celeste ; but could she efforts bend, 
In years tender, to grasp undertakings so strong. 
Asking patience that waiteth and laboreth long? 
Though he deemed this her studio, yet could he not 
Reconcile such a work with her years or her thought. 

XIX. 

Helen now seized the pencil, with palette in hand. 



384 HELHN. 

To thecaiivas stepped, and, while Mark's face was still spanned 
With surprise, in one corner she dextrously wrought 
A neat, deft, artist's autograph — "H^Uh". 

Distraught 
As his features had been, they were now all suffused 
With a flood of clear sunshine, whose glow was diffused 
Swiftly through his whole being". 

And then did it seem 

As if this eclaircisscmcnt recalled his bright dream — 
That its health}- fulfillment was here: Art's fair queen 
Taking him by the hand, and her gloried demesne 
Showing him. 

XX. 

"So surprising 'twas not," then said Mark, 
"That in seeking the artist I groped in the dark ; 
For that you, save its spirit and ethical law. 
Aught of art had conned, sought e'er to sketch or to draw, 
Much less e'er held the palette, I never had known." 

XXI. 

"Nor so should I have done, had not seeds, by you sown 
Long ago, sprung up, bearing such fruit as you see." 

XXII. 

"You've effected a flattering likeness of me 
In this sketch." 

XXIII. 

" It is less so, I think, than the one 
You once painted of me." 

XXIV. 

"What! You knew 1 had done 
That for Richard? Ah! That was my first and my last 
Effort here to revive my lost talent . . . The past, 
Helen, you have far better improved than have I," 
Said he, 'neatli dawning joy scarce suppressing a sigh. 



REST. 385 

XXV. 

She was growing- more bold. 

She felt struck from her soul 
The strong chains that had held it ; — as 'twere, heard them fall 
With harsh clank to the ground. 

There was joy just ahead ! 
In her e^-es had the light become brighter. 

She said : 
" If, while resting, your spirit has acted through mine. 
And inspired all of worth I have wrought in design, 
With full profit improved, surely, has been your time." 

XXVI. 

"Noble woman ! a compliment all too sublime !" 

XXVII. 

"To show that 'tis no compliment merely, plea.se think 
What you did with the series of sketches in ink 
That you made in Dieppe." 

"vSome of them I've retained, 
And — it comes to me now — " 

"You gave some to a friend?" 
"Yes." 

XXVIII. 

' ' That friend, heeding well all suggestions of yours, 
Learned to draw ; and, when she, on her wa}' to far shores, 
In the dreamy Dieppe for rest tarried awhile. 
The dull hours that hung heavy on her to beguile. 
Supplemented j-our sketches with others, and kept 
All with care, while instruction-fraught years o'er her swept: 
Till, with precepts you gave graven deep on her brain. 
She durst try what might your slight encomium gain." 

XXIX. 

These words went to the farthermost wards of his heart ; 
And a moment ab.sorbed as in dream and apart 



38G IIKLKN. 

Stood he; ralh'ing then, with a look on her bent, 

Wherein gratitude, trust, and affection were blent, 

He advanced to her side, gently taking her hand, 

(The first time he had held it thus since earth was spanned 

For him with a bright rainbow that vanished the morn 

From the womb of Aurora its glory was born,) 

And thus said, in tones earnest, and tender, and true, 

Whose refrains rang with gladsomeness all her soul through : 

XXX. 

" Pupil-friend of my youth ! Tutor true in the days 

When the beacons of duty were dimmed by the haze 

Of heart-sorrow ! 

"From depths of my being I seem 

To be nerved to fulfil yet my morn's ardent dream ! 

To my spirit there comes a strong voice, to command 

That I now in the courts of the Beautiful stand. 

As I stood in days halcyon, there to find task 

For my hand, and seek harvest I A-entured to ask 

Of the years in their prime. There's a harbingered hope 

Bids me try. I'll obey, and my labor take up 

Where I left off a score of ^^ears gone. 

" 'Tis my turn, 

Now, at your feet to sit, and art-lessons to learn. 

. . . But there's one thing I must not forget. You have made 

With this artist some terms as to price to be paid. 

Please to state them." 

XXXI. 

" She leaves this entireh' with you," 
Helen said, looking full in his face, while still grew 
In her cheek warmer glow. 

XXXII. 

Ah ! The lights on the shore 
Have by Landis been signaled at last I Now no more 




Ijler head sank on his true, strong, and mastiTtitl breast. 
Where she found the ijears' guerdon — ineffable rest. 



388 RKST. 

Will his barque be tossed on the wild billows of doubt, 
Or among- despair's breakers dashed fiercely about ! 

XXXIII. 

He said : 

"She is magnanimous! 

" But, let me see 
If acceptable what I shall proffer will be." 

XXXIV. 

Round her waist, like a thief, had been stealing his arm; 
And she found herself nearing- his dominant form. 

XXXV. 

" What I have to bestow in a sheaf I will bring: 

For the first, I will give her a diamond ring ; 

Next, I'll give her a solid, plain ring, all of gold ; 

And some treasures I've kept since the glad days of old. 

Then, I'll give her one third of my houses and lands. 

And the whole of a heart that has never known bands. 

Save her own ; and a faith that shall live through the years, 

And shall follow her on, beyond time, beyond tears. 

. . . Will this do? 'Tis wage scanty for worker so true." 

XXXVI. 

There was mist in her eyes. 

She but breathed : 

"That will do!" 

XXXVII. 

Her head sank on his true, strong, and masterful breast, 
W^here she found the years' guerdon — ineffable rest. 



THE KXD. 









*^^-m 






f .^3 






■mm' 










'^fc* 















.VVMi 






, • St #-5 















t-3^*- 



^•,^ 









«^ 















.« 



liiV:' 






.** 









H- 






* if - 1 - 






